Walpurgis Hallow

Savage Journey II: Decadent & Depraved

Cindy Valentine walked through Nightmare Land, wearing her Walpurgis Hallow High cheerleading uniform. She looked at her wrists, and they were clear of any scarring or rashes. The sky was a dark grey, an oppressive slate looking down on the partying, terrified guests of the park. She walked towards the Night Walkers attraction, surrounded on all sides by drooling guys and envious girls. She saw Chet on the side of the path, walked up to him, and kissed him.

"Hey Chet," she said, purring. "Want to take me for a ride in your car later? This scene is like, so totally lame."

Chet grinned, gripped her hard enough to leave bruises, and kissed her.

"Sure thing, Cindy. Let's have another ride after that one, huh? You're my favourite thing to ride."

She did a girly blush and giggle as she sucked on her fingertip and winked. Walking away, she laughed. God, the people here were pathetic. So lost and alone, just a bunch of horny virgins who would never get laid in their lives. She was so much better than them. She was perfect; a goddess with an absolute god of a boyfriend. All these attraction were pathetic too; she would never be scared of some stupid vampires.

Thinking of vampires made her think of Alice, who was probably still crying over having fake blood poured all over her locker. What a total pussy, she thought.

But deep down, deep inside of her, someone was screaming. Someone was feeling a thousand different tortures as she was forced to watch Cindy Valentine kiss the man who raped her.

It was Cindy.

The real Cindy.

It was like being dominated by a Barbie doll. This plastic, fake Cindy, with the perfect doll uniform, perfect doll proportions, tormenting a real girl, a real girl of flesh and blood, breaking her slowly, inch by inch.

And she had felt her whole soul lock up as Chet touched her. She had felt her entire being revolt as she thought terrible thoughts, remembered doing terrible things. She clawed, she grasped, she kicked and screamed, and nothing worked. Her body simply would not obey. Her mind would not obey either. She was a prisoner of her own flesh, dragged on helplessly by the sick intelligence pulling her strings like a puppet. She had clearly been drugged; the powder on the cheerleader uniform couldn't have been just ordinary dust. But all the knowledge in the world couldn't stop her from being forced to watch her horrific actions in this nightmare of the past she saw unfolding in front of her eyes. Like a man in the depths of an ether binge, she could only watch. She was fully aware of what she was doing.

And that alone made it all the more horrifying—to have a mouth, a face, a body, and not be able to scream.

There is a silence, sometimes, in the heart of the soul. Theologians call it the "long dark twilight of the soul." It arrives usually around midnight, when you're all alone, when there's no one awake but you. You're just sitting there, hoping, praying for God to pick up and answer the phone, but He never seems to. You do whatever the fuck you can: pray, masturbate, read, cut yourself up, punch the wall till your hand's bruised and broken, listen to all the angsty music you can, load your gun full of hate and point it at the whole fucking world. And then, when you're used and spent, when you're drained and the tears have stopped falling after you thought they never would, it doesn't end. You don't feel satisfied. You sit there, hoping and praying a bit more, until you fall asleep and realize that you're not sure which is worse—going to sleep, or waking up the next morning. And it keeps happening, night after night, until you figure out just what the fuck is wrong with you, and then you try to change, to make it stop. Some people never do figure it out. And it makes them go insane.