Dangerous Delusion of Beauty - Part 1

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Bill Peterson’s dreams of spending a moment alone with a particular beautiful woman to get a kiss unexpectedly come true one strange night.

Unaware of the woman’s true purpose in allowing such a meeting to occur, unwittingly he places himself upon a road which dead ends into a place where perceptions of the living mangle with the illogical and where he eventually succumbs to this bizarre reality to enter a different dimension – in his mind.

Submitted: August 13, 2010

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Submitted: August 13, 2010

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A A A


Dangerous Delusion of Beauty

Bill Peterson’s dreams of spending a moment alonewith a particular beautiful woman to get a kiss unexpectedly come true one strange night.

Unaware of the woman’s true purpose in allowing such a meeting to occur, unwittingly he places himself upon a road which dead ends into a place where perceptions of the living mangle with the illogical and where he eventually succumbs to this bizarre reality to enter a different dimension – in his mind.

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Inside man’s profound imagination of a true literal existence of different dimensional realities beyond all empirical perceptions, there exists one ultimate reality, one special place where daily occurrences of spiritual divinity, mystical magic and mystery beyond logical reasoning and intellectual comprehension occur. It’s a world where the spirit of God is alive in every soul of every man. All creatures live in peace and harmony in a land bountiful of God’s own imagination created specifically for only those proven to have the purest of heart.

But one day God as a test of faith sent a mysterious creature born of the Devil’s seed for all who enjoyed the many things he has given them.

And despite the creature’s abhorred appearance no one knew it owned a black heart until many years later…

Grotesque in appearance and having a soul filled with the evilness of God’s most sagacious sinner, it suddenly appears one night at the burial grounds of a small remote village hidden deep within the valleys of God’s own perfection.

And there among the dead where a man of God was just buried, the mysterious creature begins to fulfill a dark ritual doing what it must to survive…

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She came forth wildly screaming, rising from out of the fresh grave spreading her wings several feet. Hideous thinly skinned wings black in color glistened in the pale moon’s light preparing for flight once more to search for another victim. After thunderously flapping them several times to break the nights’ peaceful calm they return to her body to gently nestle once more upon her back.

Crouching upon the dirt as a mythical infant just born unto her mother, she slowly stands but not without giving forth a mighty effort. Her agony is obvious her pain immense. Her loneliness entrenched deep within the bowels of a blackened spirit.

She ponders how to continue living having this perverse need to drink the blood of men whom she kills after seducing them. She despises being this monster of deception but she has no choice.

She reacts to her agony by instinctively arching her head back as far as it would go. Releasing an ear-piercing cry from deep within her gut, the haunting scream soars far and above into the surrounding countryside terrifying all who hear it.

Yet standing her nakedness is revealed, such beauty never before seen by a man who has lived. Long fiery red hair hanging down past her delicate face caressing ample breasts that have allured so many, her latest victim’s blood still dripping from her succulent lips. Razor-sharp talons imbedded deep within her claw-like feet entrench themselves into the freshly overturned soil to help hold her afoot.

Lowering her head to view her victim’s blood-drained face once last time, she’ll always remember their lovemaking. This one cheated on his wife so she feels less remorse. But what about so many innocent others where she entered into their dreams to seduce them, then afterward slaughtering them so she can drink their much-needed blood?

Alas, regardless of her past she turns her thoughts to the future while gazing up into the starry night sky and wondering who will it be next time, a sheepherder, a blacksmith? Will he be happily married, a thief or even a killer like herself?

Such thoughts only entertain her for it truly doesn’t matter. All men are the same she concludes, easily luring even the most noble of them into her bed with a gentle smile – however deadly that smile always turns out to be.

But time is of the essence. For it has been pre-ordained by God that when the sun rises the next day and then disappears, she must kill again. Her survival depends on it. Failure to taste the blood of another man by that time will result in her returning to Satan’s side to serve him, something she passionately fears.

So, crouching quickly and extending her wings to their fullest she doesn’t waste any more time, hurriedly jumping up several feet catching the air beneath her wings to lift her high into the dark night…

Thousands of years later…

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Cheryl seems like a nice girl but she’s not my type, having more the personality of a scatterbrain than some intellectual fresh out of college. I quit trying to pick up these empty-headed center-spread bimbo types after deciding a few years back that I needed much more than one-night stands with sexy drop-dead bombshells. A night of wild sex was always great but I’ve come to realize and accept that a lifetime of love and devotion is much more gratifying.

So I said good-bye to her and her two friends when deciding it was time to leave after realizing time had escaped me. It was just after 10 pm and I needed to get home to get some rest. Unfortunately I have to get up early to go to work.

After stepping out into the chilly December night air, I zipped up my old worn faded army jacket to the top of my neck to help ward off the sting of the sudden drop in temperature. It must have fallen a good fifteen degrees while relatively solving the world’s problems inside Louie’s, my favorite watering hole.

That infamous howling wind coming in off Lake Michigan chilled the air down in a hurry. The sound of it swirling in between the surrounding buildings seemingly cried out raucously for some much-needed rest. It was crisp and unmercifully penetrating, probably blowing at least forty miles an hour.

Facial muscles began to vigorously stiffen as the savageness of it slammed my exposed flesh. And, along with this nagging sinus condition that seems to never leave me, the freezing temperature only made me more susceptible to catching a doggone cold. I loathe the cold weather.

It also sleeted during my time just spent downing several Coronas. Frozen rain decorated the neighborhood’s streets and sidewalks with a shimmering glitter as the streetlights from above gently reflected out from within them.

Loosing track of time to escape the humdrum of my existence has become an easy thing for me to do. Alcohol numbs the mind and senses’ sometimes thinking it’s a shame when I feel less pain. But it allows me to forget, for a short while at least, the eight hours I spend five days a week on the shipping docks over at the Distribution Center on Holloway.

The job’s a bust. Loading and unloading various types of heavy machinery from forty-foot flatbed trucks while sitting atop an electric forklift all day long is not very satisfying. But it keeps a roof over my head when the rent gets paid on time.

And the fact that heavy smokers with dementia-like attitudes having a flair for the overly dramatic surround me all day long, push my definition of dull to the limit. The way these insufferable whiners (day-babies – a more definitive term I prefer) talk of their wives, all of them must be screwing the mailman or the neighbor’s teenage son.

My name is Bill Peterson and I’m a fifty-eight year old divorcee living on the South side of Chicago. If I could just win the lottery I’d move away from this lousy neighborhood, better yet from the entire town. Pimps, hookers and drug dealers seem to own these streets practically twenty-four hours a day. The atmosphere is not what I call particularly wholesome.

Even the Police Department, who are paid with my tax dollars to protect the innocent, doesn’t come around this side of town much. There’s just too many street gangs made up of punks with guns who shoot first and don’t bother asking questions later.

The unspoken word on the street is if you’re not tough enough to handle it then move before you become a statistic. I’ve been fortunate I guess. During my nine months living here I’ve encountered only a handful of the locals, mainly to buy dope.

Don’t do it anymore. Tried it while my tour of duty in Viet Nam and quit after I returned to the States. The fact that I’m also six foot seven, two hundred and thirty-five pounds may also be as to why these cockroaches don’t screw with me much.

I begin my short walk home by carefully sidestepping the slippery sleet. The small flashes of light bouncing up from the ice unwittingly keeps catching my eye, as the alcohol continues to dog my sense of thought. It doesn’t take much for me to get distracted when my brain is laden from drinking a tad too much. Still echoing in my head is Get Off Of My Cloud by the Rolling Stones, the last song I heard as I left the bar.

Unsuspectingly a voice suddenly sneaks up from behind asking, “Hey buddy, wanna a blowjob for twenty bucks?” It was deep, haunting and disturbingly overflowing with testosterone. I stop, sluggishly turn around to see an old man in drag probably in his sixties squinting at me as if trying to see whom it was he was speaking to.

A short black wig sits atop his head in sharp contrast to the glossy bright red lipstick smudged around his thin taut lips. The heavy rouge caked upon his chin and cheeks must have been an attempt to hide the still noticeable beard stubble beneath. I take a step back to notice black fishnet stockings laden with numerous tears that woefully matted down the dark hair on his pathetic bony white legs.

The old fart has a whimsically quality, much like a clown performing in the center ring for Ringling, Barnum and Bailey. I wanted to conclude that he must have wondered too far from some local nursing home. But in reality he’s probably homeless looking for some fast cash to buy crack or a bottle of booze.

Regardless, I’m amused by his eccentric appearance. I’ve seen male prostitutes on the street before, but never one as disgustingly ugly as this one.

I attempt to chase him off by simply saying, “I’m going to turn you from a rooster into a chicken if you don’t scram you bitch!”

A not so surprising resounding, “Screw you!” immediately comes slobbering forth from those toothless gums. Then just after making a hasty retreat he flips me off, no doubt fearing of what I might do to retaliate to such incredible insipid behavior.

And as I observe him running away, or rather attempting to in his much too tight denim skirt, once more my mind can only sarcastically surmise, ‘Yep, no doubt, nighttime brings out the best in people.’

I roll my eyes up and shake my head from the incredible perverseness of it all. And immediately after turning back around I continue on my way home, scanning the sidewalk ahead for any other dirt bags waiting for a chance to make a quick buck.

However, the mighty wind continues to pummel my face, forcing me to keep my head somewhat down to avoid its sting. Its sharp keen edge was already beginning to briskly pierce the tips of my ears.

In a couple of minutes I come upon Angelina’s Butcher Shop, a relative small business where I often stop to buy a regular supply of hamburger, hotdogs, etc. Angelina herself had just stepped outside, apparently closing for the day much later than usual.

I stop a few feet short to where she was rolling down the new protective steel mesh cage recently installed on the shop’s outer perimeter. And with the howling wind so fiercely deafening, she seemed unaware that I was near.

She was robbed just last week thus the probable reason for the added security. A good guess would be somewhere deliciously next to her person she’s probably now packing a pistol. I make my presence known by attempting to speak above the screaming wind.

“It’s about time you close.” My voice apparently was obtrusive, catching her completely unaware and causing her to react with a sharp suspicion of imminent danger.

She reeled her head around incredibly fast with eyes completely annihilated by fear. Her spontaneity, blistering razor sharp eyes and half-crazed expression frightened me in return, so much so that I reacted by recoiling away from her with tense apprehension. She probably would have shot me if that pistol were in her hand.

But upon quickly recognizing me as one of her regulars, vulgarity erupts nonetheless from her tantalizing lips, lips by the way I’ve secretly desired to kiss.

Shouting “You son-of-a bitch! You scared the living shit out of me! I damn near had a heart attack!” In looking at her I never thought her capable of such words.

However, her anger readily melts into one of keen sensitivity upon immediately realizing I meant her no harm. I’m sure seeing the fear she put into my face helped her come to the conclusion.

Then her trademark smile, one seemingly forever filled with teasing invitations to share good conversation over dinner and a bottle of 1997 Joseph Phelps Merlot forms on her face, a face that stays with me every time I exit her shop.

“I’m sorry Angelina. I certainly didn’t mean to scare you,” apologizing instinctively when guilt begin to tug on my coattail.

Then out of nowhere there was a brief exhilarating moment when our eyes seem to touch. It was sheer titillation for me. It was like she was daring herself to expose a personal thought or feeling toward me beneath that delightful exterior, seemingly like a bit of a shy curiosity perhaps. It felt like we were dancing to a quick two-step, practically blowing me out of my shoes. She’s never before displayed any kind of interest toward me.

But the moment was practically over before it got started when she suddenly looked away to continue securing her shop.

Angelina is a woman of exceptional beauty. Has the body of a big time model say maybe a Giorgio Armani or an Abercrombie and Fitch type. She can’t be more than forty years old, five foot five and a hundred ten pounds. Possessing electrifying hazel eyes, shimmering red hair hanging down way past her shoulders, definitive high cheekbones, a fair complexion and a succulent pouting upper lip that never quits screaming pleading with me to kiss her, I get absorbed of deep rapture every time I see her. Regardless of the intimidation she makes me feel from such alarming good looks, she completely overwhelms every male sense God has given me.

Ever since I first entered her shop I’ve been smitten, but undoubtedly along with every other man that’s ever had the pleasure of encountering her.

I remember that first day as if it was yesterday. The apron she had on as she stood behind the counter waiting on customers, tightly wrapped around that smoldering body soaked in blood from slicing God knows what kind of meat, coupled with her flawless face filled me with a fiery wickedness reserved only for the fiendish Devil.

It was the one-two punch of her peppery hot looks smothered with something so unappealing which was that of her blood stained apron. The contrast between the two gave me such an intense visionary experience that it awakened those feelings of having any kind of interest toward the opposite sex. Very peculiar I know. But experiencing such a renaissance of emotion has been very uplifting.

And as I presently continue observing her, my brain eagerly grabs the opportunity to secretly scan her entirety. Even through her heavy winter coat my imagination loses control, practically exploding out from every pore of my face.

Then unexpectedly she stands to face me politely saying, “Had to fill a big order for a New Year’s Eve bash over at Armando’s Pub on Highland. You know, the usual ribs, polish and dogs…” cutting her sentence short to stoop over once more to padlock the last bar into the latch cemented in the sidewalk. Again my eyes went about the pleasantness of absorbing those curvaceous qualities that were definitely original in every sense. Absolutely no one on the planet is built like she is.

When she was through she stands for the final time informing me, “Ground round will be on sale all next week. Make sure you stop by.”

“You can count on it,” I warmly respond as if having the quaintness of a sexually frustrated priest secretly chained to a lifetime of celibacy.I haven’t been with a woman since I got divorced three years ago.

She gives me an quick smile before turning away to cross the street’s slippery asphalt to retrieve her mint-conditioned ’65 Chevy Impala Caprice parked inside Rosario’s Parking, a public three-story garage secured by a ten-foot high chain-length fence surrounding its perimeter. A gate near the building’s front entrance always has an off-duty cop stationed to let people in and out, especially this time of night when the seemingly aimless show up to conduct their privately owned businesses.

“Watch your backside,” I yell as she continues to walk away. Without looking back she acknowledges my comment with a quick wave of her hand as the armed guard allows her to pass through upon showing him her parking receipt. It made me feel better knowing she’d be in her car soon and on her way home.

As I watched her disappear down the road I bust my own balls by saying, “You could have asked her out on a date, you chicken shit!”

None-the-less, I turn back around to continue once more on my way home walking another block before coming up to the narrow alleyway I sometimes use for a shortcut. With the lousy weather I figure the sooner I get home the better.

The freezing cold was already chaffing the skin on my half frozen hands making them sting. I mistakenly left my doggone gloves at the bar. Raising my hands up to my mouth I exhale into them giving them and my face some much-needed warmth.

And upon entering the narrow darkened passageway, the wrath of the extreme cold quieted down to an echoing whisper. Lined with walls three feet apart built from brick that’s now frozen made the air even more biting.

Then the thought of sitting on the couch at home getting warm sipping a little eggnog spiked with rum begins fueling my desire to quicken my pace. It would be the ticket to a good night’s sleep.

“Damn, it’s bitter tonight. Should have had a few more beers to keep me number,” musing out loud as if trying to magically protract the cold for another day. My crystallizing breath remains hanging in the icy air a few moments longer without the wind quickly dissipating it into nothing.

Then without warning an excruciating pain sharply caroms up from the bottom of my foot, forcing me to vehemently quip, “Ouch! What the hell?” I stop to hurriedly look down to see of all things, an icy-covered syringe sticking out from the bottom of my tennis shoe. The tip of it was poking me in the doggone foot.

“Man, that smarts!” squawking ill mannerly while simultaneously yanking it out and tossing it away several feet. Upon its removal the impacted pain only partially subsided. For a burning sensation remained feeling much like a bee sting.

“This hurts like hell,” angrily voicing the obvious. “The sooner I get home the better so I can disinfect the stupid thing. Don’t want to get a darn infection.”

“Damn junkies,” also sarcastically barking over my sudden misfortune.

I don’t have much of a temperament for heroin addicts or other drug abusers over their self-induced shortened lives. It seems caring for one’s self dissolves into an empty thought inside these people’s brains. I know it’s an addiction but if they don’t reach a point where they get bored with it all and want to seek treatment, then what’s a normal person to do? The pain in my foot is a reminder of my attitude toward such individuals, propelling me to once again chime with disgust, “Damn junkies!”

But before taking a step I test my foot so see how painful walking on it was going to be. And after gingerly placing it down upon the frozen ground and applying just enough weight to see how it would react, the stinging sensation only increased with the added pressure.

“This is just frigging great. Damn neighborhood, damn town!” harping and now proceeding with a necessary slight limp.

But after walking only four or five steps my head begins to experience unexpected dizziness, however slight. I readily dismissed it thinking my missed supper replaced by a bellyful of beer is the reason for feeling as such.

But the sensation keeps increasing at a phenomenal rate, quickly saturating my head and woeful stomach, forcing me to stop and throw my hands up to lean against the cold brick for support.

Feeling abruptly like I was being swept up into a whirlwind of sorts, the increasing nausea-like dizziness made me feel quickly from mu usual. I was forced to close my eyes to try and settle my snarling insides in hoping my guts wouldn’t suddenly come spewing forth.

“Whew, man, this really feels ah… weird,” barely muttering while trying to catch my breath as the rhythm of my heart mysteriously quickens. ‘This feels like serious shit.’

Then very surprisingly, the veins in the back of my hands begin to spasm with every heartbeat, propelling my thoughts toward deeper confusion as to what’s happening. Vigorously starting to sweat as if from some extended workout, I was finding it impossible to think about anything else but.

‘What the heck is this? Am I having a heart attack?’ the fear in me increasing. This whole thing was just too damn weird. ‘Never has beer affected me like this before.’

In staggering contrast to just a moment ago, even leaning against that very wall was becoming a major challenge when the thing began swaying up and down as if it were some kind of weird living entity. Closing and reopening my eyes with the purposeful intent of wishing whatever this invasion is unto me would magically go away wasn’t working.


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