By day, Brad is a mild-mannered Account Manager. But at night and in the wee hours of the morning, he summons the muses and transcribes the tales that their devilish tongues whisper in his ear. Always a horror fan, Brad loves writing and telling scary stories.
Brad haunts the neighbourhoods in Central Texas with his wife and their ever-hungry, never-satiated four teenagers. His debut novel “The Night Crew” is set to be released in 2024 by Wicked House Publishing. You can learn more about Brad by following him on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/BradRicksAuthor or visiting his site https://BradRicks.com
THE DELIVERY
by
Brad Ricks
The drone of their chanting is all Amy hears, yet all she cares about is the pain tearing through her body. She knows every muscle fiber is being ripped apart. Her abdomen burns with a white-hot fire.
Her eyes are squeezed shut, but it doesn't make a difference. She couldn't see anything. When this had started, when they drug her out of her prison and strapped her to this altar, they had wrapped a blindfold around her head. A few times, her thrashing had caused the blindfold to slip, but the leader, the one dressed like a fucked-up priest with horns on his head, had quickly tightened it back each time. It's now tight enough to thin out the black cloth to the point where she can make out their silhouettes.
"Drugs!" she cries out.
"No drugs," a female voice says. "He must be pure."
Amy screams out again in agony.
"How much longer?" the priest with the horned headdress asks. "The midnight hour approaches."
Fingers push hard on her stomach and downward.
From inside of her, the beast - she knows that's what it is - kicks at each finger that touches her. Her skin is pinched between the two of them, sending wave upon wave of searing pain across her torso. An instant later, she feels those same fingers forcefully reach inside of her.
Amy listens to the steady cadence of chanting. It surrounds her. She wants to focus on it, would rather focus on it, than this violation.
Finally, there's a moment of relief when the fingers withdraw.
"She's not far enough along," the female voice says. "We'll need to cut."
"No!" Amy yells. She struggles against the ropes binding her arms and legs to the stone altar. "Don't cut." She starts to cry. The tears are immediately absorbed by the blindfold. "Please, God, don't cut."
"Our god is the one commanding this," the horned priest says, his silhouette hovering just above her. "You know this is the way."
His voice fades away as his silhouette disappears from Amy's sight.
The chanting stops, leaving her trapped in her head with nothing but the pain.
Loud, as if proclaiming to an audience, he says, "Faithful, with this new year comes the new beginning. The Vessel That Was Chosen is prepared. Our lord chose her, laid with her, and deposited his seed into her so that we, the Faithful, may bear witness to his coming, to his reckoning of this sinful world."
Cheers erupt from the congregation. Even through the pain, the volume gives Amy pause and a moment of realization.
"Am I on display?" Amy asks. "Are they all here, watching? They are, aren't they? Is there no humanity amongst you?
"Please don't cut me open."
As her sweat and tears soak her blindfold, it drops down her face and into her mouth. All she can taste is saltiness.
"Faithful, the hour is at hand." The horned priest's voice booms out. "The new year, the new world is ready to begin. During this ceremony, as The Vessel That Was Chosen cries out, bringing the risen lord into this world, cry along with her. Let her pain and sacrifice be your pain and sacrifice."
Amy fights against her restraints. Along with the contractions tearing her insides apart, she feels the raw and bleeding skin of her ankles and wrists under the ropes. Her head moves up and down as much as it can, struggling to get our from under the blindfold.
The horned priest moves around the altar and stands over her head.
"With each drop of blood shed, may the glory of our Lord be upon you."
"Ah-men," came the resounding response.
Suddenly, a sharp pain hijacks Amy's body. The feeling of a thousand bee stings in a single location pierces through her just below her stomach. Wet warmth flows down her side and underneath her. With a gasp of air, Amy releases a blood-curdling shriek. The air rushes past her vocal cords with ferocity in a volume she didn't know she could achieve.
From the multitude of Faithful, her scream is echoed back at her.
A strange mixture of sensations courses through her stomach. As the skin is sliced open, the intense pain is unbearable, but there's also a release of tension that brings about euphoria.
Is this what dying feels like? Amy wonders.
She cries out again, but nowhere near as loud. The Faithful respond in kind.
She feels pressure inside her body, digging around, cutting and pulling. Her organs feel as if they are slipping out of her, only held together by the loosest of arteries and tendons.
Darkness, even more than the blindfold, clouds her vision. She is falling into a deep, abysmal tunnel.
Wet, sticky, warmth drains from her legs, her stomach, and down her back.
She knows that soon she's going to pass out, and the nightmare will end. Let the world deal with the beast inside of her.
Then she hears it. From deep within her tunnel, she hears the sharp cry of a newborn baby. Her baby. Her sweet, innocent baby. Maybe he isn't the beast she feared.
Coupled with his cries, she hears the deep resonance of a church bell.
It's midnight. Happy New Year. The first child born this new year, and he is hers. At least for as long as she is still on this Earth, he is hers.
Suddenly, bright light enters her vision as the horned priest removes the blindfold. Most of her vision is blocked by the tunneled darkness. But within the sliver that isn't, arms reach across her from both directions.
For an instant, she sees her son, and in that single moment, there is relief that she is no more. Between the small horns protruding from his skull and the bat-like wings on his back, she knows the beast has arrived.