Susan Gist sat in her little home with her sweetheart Nan one late March evening. Susan sat close to the fire, to provide some extra light for the scarf she was knitting; Nan would surely need one, once the next winter rolled around. Susan was very forward-minded in that way. She worked diligently, needles clicking row after row, while Nan told stories about her day. The sun had nearly set outside, only a thin yellow strip along the horizon.

It seemed like an evening no different from any other.

Nan said, "Oh, Susie, what are we going to do for Easter tomorrow?"

"We'll go to church," Susan said, not looking up, "and I'll make a nice dinner."

"A beautiful, holy day."

Susan stifled a laugh. "Yes."

Nan also laughed, or began to — but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

The two women looked at one another.

Susan said: "Why, you ought to answer it!"

"I'm — busy. You answer it, my love."

"But Nan, I'm also busy with my knitting — besides, you are so much better with… guests."

"Answer the door!" Nan commanded.

Susan squealed as she did so.

On their doorstep was a crowd of masked figures. They stood in neat rows, wearing white vestments and toting lanterns and drums. Their masks were white and clearly carved by hand; in the ghoulish flickering light, the imprint of fingertips still be seen upon their pale foreheads. They were all demons, some flat and plain, some anguished, most grinning with painted red cheeks.

Susan made to close the door, but it was no use. The demons flooded into the household. Two especially strong ones hoisted Susan into their arms. She thrashed and cried but could not escape.

Their little home was ransacked: the bookshelf pushed over, contents trampled upon; dishes broken, pots flung through windows. The quiet night was filled with the demons' rakish laughter.

Nan brandished a candlestick. "You get out of here! Don't you dare touch her! I'll kill you!"

Susan was pinned to the wall. Her glasses fell and left her blind. "Please… please don't!"

The laughter doubled.

The demons held down her arms so that she could not hit or scratch. She was rather like a bird with its wings stretched. Her legs were pulled open as the largest demon hoisted up its robe to reveal a carved dildo.

Susan threw her head back. It hit the wall. She looked up to the ceiling, and her unseeing eyes filled with a heretofore unseen inner strength. She began to pray, passionately, unerringly. Praying for the Lord to spare her, to keep her sacred virginity.

This did nothing, of course. She was mounted, the instrument pushed straight through her cunt. At first, she begged for mercy. Even these demons must've been capable of it, right?

But as her attacker pumped harder and faster, she grew used to the sensation. Her eyes glazed over. Her head lolled forward. Others crowded around, tearing off what remained of her clothes, kissing her naked skin. They kneaded and marked her flesh. They paid loving attention to the brand on her thigh.

"Don't… don't you dare hurt her…" Nan whined. She lay upon the floor, watching her lover's ravishing. A demon grasped her by the hair and slammed her head into the floor. Blood burst from her nose. Summarily she was stripped, and laid out on the floor, and trod upon and kicked in the cunt. They dragged her, limp, towards the scene.

Susan made more noise, now. Her state of mindlessness had transformed into something different. She still looked up, but the tenor of her prayers had changed. "Please… please… Lord Jesus…"

Nan was hoisted to her knees. Her bloody nose was pushed into the asshole of Susan's attacker.

"Oh, Jesus — make me come! Please — faster! Faster!"

Merciless hands still held Nan's head in place; the taste was all blood and body. Even from there, she could smell Susan's musk: the long-familiar sweet scent of her lover. Nan's tongue flicked out.

The ass puckered.  It seemed to push itself further against Nan's attentions. Nan lifted her trembling fingers and flicked the rapist’s labia.

Susan, her hair down, cheeks streaked with tears, had undergone a transformation. She prayed, her words loud and strident and yet stumbling over one another in her excitement.

Before she could finish her holy words, she spasmed and let out a series of high breaths. She cried as she came around the dildo. She slipped, limp-limbed, into her rapist's arms. Nan, seeing such a thing, came herself. She lay, humping the floor, mewling pathetic little words.

Susan crawled towards her, and they lay together, kissing until Susan's spit mixed with Nan's nosebleed. What started as a little snort from Nan grew into raucous laughter. Their house shook with it.

The drumming ceased. Everyone took a moment, tension released, to watch the lovers. The rapist lifted her mask. "That was the quickest fuck I've done all night."

"Hear that, Susie? You're easy," Nan said.

Another reveler stumbled through the crowd, toting libations and a fresh set of costumes over her arm. "Come on, don't tarry. We've got a lot of houses to get to."

"I say Susie gets another turn."

"You can do that on your own time, whore."

The two women donned their robes, drank deeply, and left the house with the others, hand-in-hand.

Grace had completely forgotten about the holiday until she went out one morning to buy more beans and found the center of the town bustling. Flowers lined every windowsill, and all around her were ladies in their Sunday best: pale purple velvet bolero jackets and big, blooming hats. Gosh did Grace feel foolish wandering around with her holey stockings!

She'd been too busy settling down in town to go to church on Sundays and had lost track of the calendar. Mama would’ve scolded her for it, but Grace didn't give a damn. She was more embarrassed she hadn't come sooner to such a grand party.

There were women carrying glasses with them; they were being filled endlessly by others with jars of wine.

In the crowd, Grace found her neighbor Flora Bannerworth, who greeted Grace with a friendly smile. Grace spared not a moment to ask what the devil was happening.

"It's Easter, of course!"

"I've never seen an Easter like this," Grace said. "It looks more like some kind of heathen sacrifice!"

"Come with me." Miss Bannerworth took Grace's arm. "We can go and watch a miracle play!"

This sure beat her original plans: staying in that ugly old house, ever so bored. There were only so many nights she could spend in a rocking chair, chewing the tips of her hair while hunched over her mending.

There was an impromptu stage in front of the mayor's house. Wooden boards were laid upon the ground, blocking off the profuse mud. It was spring, after all.

Upon the stage, women wore tunics and togas over tall riding boots (likely to guard against mud) and spoke in high, strident tones. There was one woman, standing bowed with a wooden cross and a crown of thorns.

Wow, Grace thought. There are so few men, they could not even find one to play Jesus!

Grace stood to watch the play, shifting on her feet (they did hurt). This was way better than church! Church didn't have cool costumes, or torches, or chants for crucifixion.

She turned to Miss Bannerworth. "Gosh, they really know how to act! That blood looks terribly real."

Miss Bannerworth heartily agreed.

Before Grace knew it, she was conversing in detail with several of the nearby women. It was so easy to make new friends in Loveday.

"Trust me, I've seen my fill of extraordinary things," said Grace. "Traveling here, I had to pass through fields of buffalo, all the way up through these here mountains. Danger at every turn! Most wouldn't have survived."

Her new friends nodded.

"I saw steel lines running through the earth! I even got to ride a train." Grace lifted her head.

"Perhaps one day," Miss Bannerworth said, "there will be a train running through town."

"Oh, can you imagine? All these new young ladies visiting."

"I wouldn't want all the scrutiny," said an older woman.

Grace disliked the change in subject. "All the danger was worth it, of course. I like it here, a lot. People like me, too! You know, I have a special friendship with the rich lady that lives up on the hill. I visit practically half the week and eat good food and try on pretty dresses!"

On loan, of course. Grace wished she could keep them. Every moment she wasn't in a satin hoop skirt and alkaline bonnet felt like torture.

This topic of conversation roped the ladies in again. She was glad to tell about all the things she saw: how Grace had a favorite spot in the garden, and a special seat at the breakfast table. How Ianthe often complimented Grace and said how pretty and spirited she was. "She talks of me like I'm a horse," Grace said, not as offended as she should have been.

The converse of this, Grace did not mention, was how little Grace wanted to go back home afterwards. There was a hole in the hem of the dress she wore — for it had gone unworn so long that she hadn't seen the point in fixing it.  She wouldn't be wearing it to Ianthe's, would she?

"Wait," said Grace, suddenly. "If all the town is celebrating — is Ianthe throwing a party, too?"

"Of course!"

They were at the point of the Easter play where the guards tortured the crucified Christ. There were shouts whenever the whip struck Jesus's bare back. Grace turned away from all this and tried to hide her annoyance. Was she not a close enough friend to be invited to Ianthe's party? When Ianthe had gone on and on about how much she liked Grace and wanted her around? Ianthe reiterated, constantly, about how generous a host she was. There’s no rush to leave, Ianthe would say. Everything that is mine is yours.

Grace resolved to go there straightaway.

Well, not straightaway straightaway.

There was just so much to see! The Easter Parade was going through the town, and there was music and even more costumes — white robes, hands dipped in gold, flowers in everyone's hair. There was a woman handing out cake, and who was Grace not to take some? Ianthe would not be going anywhere. Grace could take a moment to watch the parade and dream about what a pretty dress she would wear next year. The sun went down, but the celebrations did not stop. Lanterns were lit and carried around.

While Grace puttered about, the Devil roamed wild.

All of the girls, raped the night before, were loose and airy. They smiled vacant smiles and walked on light feet in circles throughout the town. They were rather like ghosts — murdered in their beds, wandering the land as evening fell upon them. If anyone were to be so bold as to touch them, they would inevitably acquiesce.

But there was only one who had that right.

She joined the procession wearing red. She stood out starkly amongst the other revelers, who wore only white and black. Her robe was layered in sheets of thin gauze that floated like a candle's flame. Her gloved hands were tipped with claws, and she walked with a black cane.

No one had seen her arrive, and no one was to see her leave. She took hold of a girl and tore off her clothes. The devil fucked her victim, clean in front of all the revelers, with the head of her cane.

Throughout the act, the girl was showered in flower petals; she made no noise. When the Devil released her, she dutifully returned to the march. She walked, still naked, into the encroaching arms of the drunken crowd. They were eager to lick her clean.

Grace was interrupted by women offering libations, cups overflowing, laughing with teeth. “Are you going up to the house?”

“I am!” Grace declared.

“Please,” they said, “take as much as you can swallow.”

The Devil, meanwhile, chose another, and another. She fucked a widow who had been resigned to the fate of never being loved again. She fucked what had once been a cloistered nun. She fucked what she wanted and they thanked her for it. The Devil raked out a pussy with her claws, thighs slicked red, the others falling to their knees around her. They worshiped the very dirt she walked on. They professed unending devotion. They thanked the Devil for rescuing them from such a cruel world.

“If you go there,” Grace was told, “please give Master our regards!”

Grace drank more wine.

She lay on her back. The chandelier swung above her. Its lights were bleeding halos, rings whirling around one another. The satin cover of the couch brushed against her thigh. Her stockings had been hiked down, her skirts hiked up, enough so that bare skin could scrape against the cool fabric. The room was sweltering. There were many, many people in it.

“Another?”

Before Grace could respond, her neighbor on the settee was tilting her bottle of wine over Grace’s weak wrist and filling her glass to the brim.

Grace’s lips bumbled against one another. “I’ss sweet…”

“Would you rather something else?”

“I’ve never tasted anything so…”

“You are very drunk, aren’t you?”

No. No, Grace was not drunk. She’d been drunk before, her husband could attest to that. Drunken Grace was loud and affectionate, endlessly running her mouth. She was not drunk, but something was weighing down her body. She felt so heavy, like her wrist and ankle bones were made of lead; the room was warm, and there were all these girls nearly-asleep on the floors and seats around her. They were spread through the room like an overturned toybox, piled over another, half-lidded eyes fluttering.

Grace struggled to remember when she had gotten to the house. She furrowed her brow, and concentrated (though the chandelier threatened to steal her attention again) with all her might. Yes — she could recall something like coming to the house, being let in the door, given more drink. Her had been confirmed: there was a gathering here, too, and Grace had been left by the wayside. The nerve!

Well, she should’ve thought that. Why didn’t she? When had she collapsed like this?

“There’s something…” Grace said, with great effort. “There’s something about this place.”

“Hm?”

“Something in the air that makes it hard to… hard to think…”

The woman giggled. “You don’t need to think.”

“I wanna… I wanna…”

“Shh….” The woman put the glass to Grace’s lips. She was kinda pretty. Grace wasn’t much to look at herself, though she thought all her other good traits made up for it. Sweet wine, plum red, dribbled down Grace’s chin.

“Whaa…”

There was something in the air, something persistent and probing pressing its fingers through her ears. It did not want her to think and, quite frankly, neither did Grace. Fucking… fucking thing… why were there so many women here? Why were they in this room? Grace remembered eating: a table laden with rich foods, all ripe for the taking. She remembered drinking, being given her glass and having it filled generously. She danced with masked revelers and imagined that, perhaps, one of them might turn out to be a handsome boy in disguise. There were weights on her arms. Her throat was clagged with grape and mush and sugar. Why were there so many?

Voices fluttered into her ear. “Master’s in the basement…”

A basement? Grace didn’t know about any basement.

How many times had Grace been shown the house? How often had Ianthe professed her hospitality? And there were yet rooms that Grace had never seen! Was she not important enough to see every room?

Grace struggled to her feet, despite some startled protests. She stumbled over the prone bodies that lay before her, who did not do more than moan even when kicked.

Basement… basement…

Grace went through the cold and empty kitchen. The fire had burnt out. An elderly servant had collapsed, gnarled hand still on her knife. Grace saw no need to disturb her, especially not when she spotted the stairs that plunged downwards, deep into the depths of the house.

It was darkness until she came into the room, red with torchlight. A loose seam in the floor stirred cold air that went right up Grace’s spine. The scene unfolded in pieces.

There were bodies tied up: faces turned away from view, legs forced apart, dark crotches spread and presented like art on display. They were breathing heavy, rising and falling, pulsating in the flickering light.

There were those on the floor, almost all naked, backs gleaming with sweat.  It was a blur of flesh, dark hollowed faces, desperate eyes, lolling tongues and teeth. They were crawling, like lizards under a stone, towards the center of the room where a large coffin sat, its lid overturned. Inside it wast the Devil in red, a naked woman bouncing in its lap.

Two women were embracing — but — but no, it was not something so tender. It was a battle, nude forms slapping against one another, flashes of blades between them. One of them took the other’s hair and slammed her head into the floor, over and over again, until her victim was spitting blood from between her teeth. A carving knife swung towards her neck — but the lower rolled over, and the blade sunk into the dirt floor.

Slash!

The knife cut across naked shoulderblades. Gasping, bleeding, the woman keeled forward and collapsed, her wound held up to the air.

“Don’t play dead,” said the figure in the coffin. “Get up.”

“Y-yes, Master!” cried the woman on the floor. “Ohh…”

And then — oh, was the most horrible thing. The figure removed its mask, and it was Ianthe! At first, Grace could not comprehend it. What was she doing here, in such a horrible place? Why wasn't she stopping them?

Ianthe leaned down, even as the girl struggled to move. She placed her lips upon the wound and ravaged it.

It was as if she had cracked open some ripe fruit and was eating out the insides. It was loud and thorough and violent. Grace felt as if she'd been torn from her body; she was sure she was going to lose consciousness. And then Ianthe looked up, and saw Grace, and tilted her head with an amused smile.

Said Ianthe, "Well, smart girl? Have any guesses as to why?"

Grace screamed.

“Boy.” Master’s voice cut through the sheriff's mind, ceasing all other thoughts. "Deal with her."

The sheriff was in the kitchen, and with the forewarning, merely stepped towards the door and caught Grace by her shoulder as her sister came crying  up the stairs.

“Ah!” Grace screamed — then whirled around. Her back bumped against the kitchen table. “Oh — oh, where did you come f-from?”

“I was in the parlor,” the sheriff lied.

“T-the basement!” Grace stuttered over her words. “Have you gone into the basement? You’re the sheriff here, right? There’s something going on in there. Something — something really, really bad. It’s— it’s— oh, God, dear God…”

Grace clawed at her face, as if she could tear away what she had just seen. “There were… it was all bloody, and there was — there was someone drinking it and — and I think it was your—” She stopped, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “Your boss.”

“I have no boss. My responsibility is to the law.”

“Then— then you need to go down there and stop it!” Grace cried. “Someone’s— they’re forcing them down there, all the ladies, it’s so—so—” Tears streamed down her face.

The sheriff drew Grace closer. The girl softened as she buried her face in the sheriff’s waistcoat. She cried and cried, her back shaking with the movement.

“What did you see?” said the sheriff.

Grace went on to describe the scene with no shortage of horror. Women — strung up! Bodies — lashing! Blood and fire, and the Devil on his throne!

"You said these women were coerced?"

“Yes! They were all tied up!”

“...had they been forced to be tied up?”

“Why else would they be?!” Grace pulled away. “And either way, it’s against the law! You can’t— you can’t be doing such things, not—not—”

Grace looked up and, as she caught the sheriff's face, her expression grew drawn. "Do not tell me that you are…?"

"That I'm what?"

“You’re with them.”

“Grace.” The sheriff stepped forward. “Don’t be silly.”

“Do you drink their blood, too?” Grace knocked over a stool as she tried to inch away. “Do— do you wear fake parts and— and—?”

“And what?”

“Sleep with— er, make love to— no…”

“Fuck?”

“You are!” With shaking hands, Grace lunged for a rolling pin. “If you come any closer, I’ll— I’ll do whatever I need to! Mark my words! I ain’t a liar! I ain’t a coward!”

“You’re hysterical, Grace. Calm down.”

“I am calm!” She swung the rolling pin threateningly. “Considering the circumstances! How can you stand there, how could you let something so — so vile happen? It was — it was like I had been plunged into the depths of Hell!” She was crying again.

“Sister…” The sheriff moved her hand. Grace tensed, anticipating that she would grab her gun — but she only reached into her waistcoat pocket. “Do you know the time?”

The chimes of midnight rolled through the house. Grace’s defensive stance slouched, and the rolling pin went clattering from her hands. The sheriff hung the watch right before her eyes and watched them lose their luster. It only took moments — Master was strong tonight. Even Grace, stubborn as an old mule, could go under at once.

“Calm yourself.”

“Hwah?”

“There is nothing to be worried about.”

“Nothing… worried…” The inside of Grace’s mouth glistened.

“There is nothing untoward happening in Loveday.”

“Un…un…”

“Everyone is happy in Loveday.”

Grace’s face was sweet when slack; her button nose, her pale eyes banished of all thoughts. “Happy.”

“Everyone is happy to serve Master.”

“Aaaa…”

“Repeat that.”

“Everyone is happy to serve Master,” said Grace.

The sheriff flicked the watch closed as the tolls ceased. She straightened herself up and stood, staring at Grace as she waited on those pigeon-toed feet. She was wiped of all her protestations; her breathing was shallow, her hands lank at her sides. The sheriff tucked a lock of hair behind her sister’s ear.

“Go home, go to bed, and fall straight asleep. You will wake up believing this night to have been a dream. You will remember what I have told you and know that it’s the truth. Do you understand, girl?”

Grace nodded.

“Go on.”

The sheriff sent off the girl and returned to find Master in the kitchen. She’d shed most of her costume, and her face was stained all brown from excess blood. Even more was all tangled in her chest hair, dark blotches across her tits and underneath her fingernails. She was taking long, slow sips straight from the mouth of a wine bottle.

The sheriff fell to her knees. She laid her head at her master’s feet.

Master wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Daphne died.”

The sheriff looked over to where Master pointed. Several hours must’ve passed since the slave’s expiring, as her eyes were all milky, and rigor mortis had set in.

“I want it out of my sight,” said Master. “Find a spot, will you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Tonight.”

“Yes, Master.” The sheriff went to collect the body. As she did so, Master snapped her fingers and summoned a random slavegirl. She demanded more wine, hiccupping between each word.

The sheriff undressed the body in another room and wrapped it in a spare sheet.  She went out to the stable, where Toms got her a horse, and rode out.

It was dark; the torches had all burnt out. Quiet, too. There were still those awake, celebrating, but their voices did not travel so far. She went along the road out of Loveday, towards the valley, and did not stop until she found a suitable spot. It was under the trees, near the crossroads, and she buried the body shallowly. Something would get to it, soon. The sheriff washed the dirt from her hands with a bit of canteen water.

Task completed, she returned to her master.

Hours had passed, and the town was frozen in the hushed, sickly wait of dawn. The sky above was bruised, the wind keen as the sheriff plodded her way down the main thoroughfare. Clop, clop past shattered glass lanterns, past discarded costumes all mired in dust, past squashed white flowers, now gray and pasted across the ground like porridge.

Only the miners were awake; in the distant fog, they made a sullen march up the mountain. They would replace the others still in the camp, who would come down to provide extra hands for whatever was needed in town until they went up again. Each batch would bring back streams of gold and silver to be traded and sold; not a single one of them would ever bother their wives or daughters again.

Fweee-whip!

The wind keened. The sound could've come from anywhere: doors left open while the owners lay on the floor, collapsed in ecstasy; broken windowpanes, the sound sharp against the jagged glass. It was a high and sharp whistle, somewhere very far away.

Fweee…

The sheriff was supposed to go straight back to the house. But as her gaze turned, and she dimly attempted to identify the sound, a body broke off from the shadows.

A stray worker?

This miner stood quite unlike the others. There was no hunch in the shoulders, no mindless trudging step. It was the sort of disobedience so flagrant that the sheriff struggled to even recognize what lay before her.

She sat upon her horse, and did nothing, did not even scold. The fog was still thick, and the insubordinate figure moved through it like water. He raised his fingers to his face. The whistle again.

The sheriff looked about her, to see who he was calling.

The miners carried lanterns. They swung back and forth with every step, sending the light skittering in the fog. The rebel came closer and closer to the sheriff. Where the light passed behind, clean holes shone through like rays from the sun. His arms. His chest.

The sheriff, with a sudden jolt, grasped the reins of her horse and whirled away from the scene. But she could not run, for yet another impossible thing blocked her path.

It was not a horse, but the remains of one: bones the color of salt, rattling as it walked. It seemed to stare at the sheriff through its gaping eyes, leering grin. What did it have to be amused by?

Caught between two figures of death — the white horse and its master in a black duster. He stopped in the middle of the path but did not speak. Even the wind seemed to obey this strange power, for it died, and left nothing but silence and the pounding of the sheriff's heart. There sat the sheriff, her horse frozen beneath her heels. Horror — an emotion she had not felt for half a decade — bathed her in ice.

She said, "Get outta my way."

Nothing.

"I'm — I'm warning you," Jack said. "I'll shoot. And there won't be nobody who comes calling for your body. Go — go back with the others, where you belong."

But the miners were long gone, having disappeared up the mountain path. It was only Jack and this… thing. This thing that she could not bear to understand.

He spoke not a word to her. On his heavy feet, he made way for his horse.

"Don’t you —" Jack twisted in her saddle. "You speak to me like a man! What are you here for? What do you want? I'll give it to you, easy — I call the shots around here. I’m…"

Her voice died.

Who was she?

Now he was grabbing the decaying reins of the skeletal horse and leading it along. Neither kicked up any dirt.

Jack hardly knew her tongue moved. "Speak to me. Please, I…"

His back, receding, bullet holes howling wind, long coat rocking back and forth with every step. He was going off into the fog, away from her forever again.

“I did what you wanted, didn’t I?!” Jack was spitting mad. “I avenged you, I spit on their bodies. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? You — you bastard!”

The fog was thick. She could see him no longer — or, if he was still there, only a flicker, a shadow soon to disappear.

"You really came all this way just to mock me? Bring trouble when I had nothing but peace — peace, bliss, purpose! I was helping people. Helping people at the will of my —"

Of her—

Her… her…

The one she'd knelt before, the one who pierced Jack's tongue with her nail, violated Jack's mind and soul and rearranged it. The who bid Jack to rape and kill and—

Jack was alone, and all the street was quiet. The houses stood in their neat rows. Birds twittered in the eaves. The fog swirled over blooming grasses and was soon swept away by a cool mountain breeze. The sun burned in its ascent over the horizon.

With horror, Jack realized she was free.