Orgy of Souls

8

Samson knew he was dreaming as soon as he walked through the sanctuary doors to find a bed among the pews. The parishioners scattered at his approach. A body writhed on the bed—a two-backed beast tucked beneath the tender mercies of a neglected Christ on a cross. Paint flaked from his brow and face as he peered over the unfolding scene. Rat-chewed feet hovered just over the bed. The moans from the sheet subsided.

A malefic odor assaulted Samson, the air redolent with the stench of infection and decay. His brother lay too still on the bed, the tattered covers pulled up to his neck. Samson couldn’t help but note how ugly and unflattering the bedspreads were; knit fabric that someone gave up on. Samuel’s emaciated body dangled from them. Splotches, like a serpentine tattoo, ran along his frail arm. Red pustules bubbled up as if his skin were subject to unseen flames. A slow gasp escaped his barely open mouth. Samuel’s sunken skull turned toward him, a black wax oozing from his ears. His eyes flushed red, vessels rupturing with his body’s betrayal, turned upward, staring beyond him.

“Save me.”

Samson awoke. Still in his dressing room, he heard the crew outside breaking down the set; the whining, lisping voice of Jacque Willet punctuated every movement, micro-managing the entire process. He must have only been asleep for a few minutes. The night was still young.