Black Mass
By Keira Lane
Black Mass: A blasphemous rite, according to the Roman Catholic Church, where Satanic worshippers dress in dark vestments to practice their witchcraft. It was used as a formal charge for those accused of heresy and witchcraft since Early Christian times.
Examples of those charged by the Church for Black Mass include: Knights Templar (14th Century) and Freemasons (19th Century)
Vibrant colored shards of glass erupted violently from the stone frame that had been their home. They twinkled with a majesty fit for a queen. Her face, painted with hellish contempt, highlighted by the red and orange hues dancing across her face. The kindling had caught fire; rage welled up within her. Heat traveled up her body, threatening to scorch everything in her path. The charges laid before her were true in every sense of the word.
She lifted her head to the sky, watching the daylight fade. A symbol of what was to come. The chilled breeze carried her hair and the uttered silent words from her lips. Her last kiss to this demonstrably pathetic world. A world that saw fit to silence any voices it didn’t agree with or failed to understand fully. They would pay for their treachery in ways they could not comprehend. She would continue to live beyond this moment — reborn in a new image — and haunt their souls for eternity.
Vengeance would be hers; the final droplets of their blood she would taste upon her tongue. It wouldn’t be an easy feat, but it was one that she’d tethered her soul to. Wood creaked beneath her feet; the stool wobbled. The itchiness around her neck was unbearable. It felt as if someone was scouring her skin raw with a jagged rock. The sounds of the merciless chanting filled the surrounding air, paying homage to their celestial being. A dark laugh conjured itself as they spoke the last words in unison.
Amen.
“John Hathorne,” slipped casually from her lips, dripping with disdain. She rubbed her hands against her plain linen nightgown. The icy cold of winter stung her exposed fingertips and toes.
Dark coats fluttered in the wind. Tall inky black hats littered about the hallowed grounds. The inhabitants of the morose attire glared at her. Their sacrilegious hatred were daggers trying to wound her spirit. Those who had fallen before her had been innocent, unable to defend themselves. She would tie them to her so that their souls might eventually find peace as well.
“Jonathan Corwin.” The name tasted like dandelion leaves on her tongue: bitter.
Parchment unrolled from the clutches of death’s hand. Scribbled in black ink was the eternal damnation they sought to cast her away to. The man’s gaunt face twisted unnaturally while spit sputtered out of his mouth at every pronounced word.
A black crow landed on the branch, near her tied fate. It peered down at her, ready to guide her into the next life. “Bartholomew Gedney,” she whispered to the crow.
When the last word spewed from the perverted sovereign, frenzied insatiable fingers clawed at her, ripping what little protection she had from the elements away. It was time, time for her final interlude before the curtains closed and she’d take her final bow.
“Thomas Danforth,” she closed her eyes after declaring the last fragment to the elaborate puzzle. An ominous smirk crept across her face. It was done.
The hard, grainy surface that had held her captive was no more. A once agonizing itch became an excruciating razor-sharp pain. The burning fire erupted into unbearable torture. Her lungs burned as if she had inhaled smoldering embers. Wind swung her body around, a lifeless bell tolling for all the damned souls.
She sucked in deep breaths, the memories of what was fading from her mind as she looked down at her crudely drawn crayon tree. A looped rope, its only decoration.
“Haley, sweetie, lunch is ready.”
“I’m coming, Mommy!”