As a child I spent hour upon hour, day after day, contemplating an alien mystery. My mind’s eye conjured countless images of the elusive being that had the power to change ordinary people into raving lunatics, ravenous beasts, or simply strike them dumb with some strange catatonic malady—after suffering shivering, quivering fits. And the only name I knew it by was Evil-O.
I have seen the mere presence of the alien entity wreak havoc in individuals, couples, and tear through families like the aftermath of some airborne toxin sprayed on Third World people by the very governments entrusted to protect them.
Even after all these years, I cannot make it stop. The images. The screams. The flesh upon flesh. And one of the biggest mysteries of all: the great number of survivors who develop some sort of amnesia, as if Evil-O alters their minds while infecting their bodies.
It is usually about here in my ongoing tale that the empty faces in blank canvasses wonder how my “silly story” has anything to do with my present predicament. And I tell them I know no other way but to tell a story from “Once upon a time” to “Happily ever after.” And they look bewildered, as if my message lacks meaning; but I always mean the definition of my words. And so I continue after shrugged shoulders bid me indifference.
I do not recall how, when, or where Evil-O first captured my imagination. I could not escape it. I became preoccupied with its power over people, perhaps obsessed, like the force or surreal addiction that grabs you when you are completely fascinated with what you fear. The archetypal Catch-22, when discovering anything with great potential to perpetuate lasting positives equally creates the opposite temptation to use its power for negatives—for evil.
I wanted to be a good girl, but I was always naughty, attracting evil without any effort. It was always thus, so said everyone that ever touched me.
I could not escape the all-encompassing reach of Evil-O, nor could anyone else. Television, movies, music, and books all spread its malevolent message. But none spread the mind-altering directive faster than the internet. Nothing appeared capable of hindering the infectious virus, much less stopping it.
Then one day while home alone, It came to my door. It beckoned me to open, and I found myself powerless to resist. And Evil-O entered, its image masked with human flesh. Camouflaged, but I was not fooled, I sensed the evil within. And it was not long before the monster revealed itself to me through touch. A touch here and I knew I was lost. A touch there and I knew It had control of me. Another touch and I became aware of how futile it was for the world to combat this threat. An evil force so destructive that mind, emotion, and body surrendered in spasmodic death throes of purity and innocence, and then were reborn to a nightmarish existence: forever seeking…desiring…the repulsive touch of Evil-O. Always demanding more. Perpetually dissatisfied. And no substitutes would do.
The empty faces in white canvasses wondered if I had some sort of epiphany.
Do they not listen? Do they not hear?
Evil-O hides within us all. Waiting for opportunities. Wreaking havoc. Orchestrating our downfall. Don’t you see?
The empty faces stare…but never see.
Convinced of their superiority, they intend to cure me. With pills and needles, and needles and pills, they take away my dreams, and send memories to the land of fog and fools, where nobody laughs—just drools.
For a while, memory of the stranger at my door faded. Evil-O alienated itself from me, slipped back into the shadows, under the bed, out of my head. Normal existence returned.
But I have learned that evil is nothing if not patient.
All Hallows Eve. Twenty years to the day from the first visitation. Approaching the witching hour. Overcast and gloomy, but unseasonably hot. As I lie naked in the bed, an ominous foreboding creeps into my room…my body…my mind. A poetic phrase from school days is recalled: “Something wicked this way comes.”
The room’s temperature is stifling. Sweat drips off my flesh, soaks the sheets—but I shiver.
A rap upon my door startles me. Dread overtakes me. I do not want to rise. I know it will be my undoing. But I am no longer a child, and burying my head under the covers will not make the demons go away.
I ease out of bed, go to the door, and crack it open just enough to peer out. No one seen. No one heard. But there is a familiar feeling from days long past. The stranger. The entity. Evil-O. And it left me a gift.
Nothing inside can be good for me, but the need to see is overwhelming. I unwrap it, but am perplexed by the contents.
A small diorama, complete with backdrop, scenery, props, everything. And as I assemble the pieces, I recognize it as a scaled-down version of a place I visited often as a child.
The sense of foreboding increases drastically. I should never have allowed the stranger access all those years ago. I should never have opened the door, or the gift, tonight. I will regret it. It is inevitable—but I cannot turn away.
I open a small velvet bag and pour out its contents into my hand. Modern-day versions of medieval dungeon accoutrement: whips, chains, racks, spikes, and various phallic symbols.
I open the last bag and drop its contents onto the diorama. Six small figurines: three men, two women, and a small girl. And though the room feels like a sauna, a chill traverses my spine. I know the girl—it is me!
A tortured scream erupts from my innermost core. I know what is coming. I cannot fight it. I fear it—but crave it. I am filthy. I am naughty. But it feels so good.
Every time Evil-O appears, I know that I die a little more. There is no hope. It will consume me. It will overtake us all in the end.
Another scream escapes me, and again, I hear the voices, see the empty faces above their white canvasses.
“Nothing you see will harm you.”
I feel their cure-all…a prick in the arm. A painful little prick to take away the others…
“On the count of three, you will awake with no memory of the experience. One…”
…the other pricks. The pricks of rubber and plastic…
…the pricks of flesh—my favorite.
I hear the pride in their voices as they jabber among themselves, while I am led back to my room. Foolish blank faces. They have not the ability to see they are lost. To see the cum on their canvasses. To see the fresh bloodstains of virgins. To see that Evil-O has left its lasting mark upon their faces and tongues…and filled their pussies and asses with enough evil elixir to keep them addicted for the rest of their accursed lives. And all because, like me, they opened the door. They answered the call, the voice of Evil-O, that commanded them as they opened their gift—a gift they had no power to refuse—“Build it, and they will cum.”
Build it, and they will cum.
Build it, and they will cum.
When to my door the stranger came—I came.
Now I cum forevermore.