Authors: Kristin Dearborn
Sacrifice Island (18 page)
She made a whistling, wheezing sound like a tea kettle, and seemed to deflate.
The chick would come out her mouth.
Jemma got down on her hands and knees and waited. She let a beat pass before she pawed at the lifeless lips.
Underneath the sound of the rustling trees, she heard a faint “peep peep” from inside the emaciated form. Jemma clasped Virginia’s jaw and pulled. It came off in her hand, the blood inside powdery and dry, and she tossed it aside. She reached a hand down the monster’s throat and came up with a tiny chick that fit nicely in her hand. Its downy black feathers were slick with ichor. Button-black eyes blinked up at her. It peeped, a question.
She needed to swallow this thing.
She could easily crush it with the
bagacay
, spear it and destroy it. While it sat small in her hand, it would be huge to force down her throat. She hesitated.
Jemma opened her mouth as wide as she could. She heard her jaw pop.
At least Alex didn’t have to see it, to know what she did.
The little bird tasted dank and ancient, like mold from a basement that’s never seen the sun. Feathers tickled her tongue and she gagged, stomach protesting against this invasion. She fought it down, worried the muscles of her throat would constrict and destroy it and it would rot there and kill her.
But it passed, leaving a nasty, stale aftertaste.
Jemma sat. Distant waves crashed against the shore. Wind sang through the trees. The brook wasn’t far off.
Then it all went quiet.
Jemma struggled to stand. The shadows grew deeper, like a time-lapse video of dusk, despite it barely being past noon.
Darker, darker, and as it grew darker, Jemma realized she couldn’t feel her feet, her legs, her hands, or her hair.
Was this what Alex felt when he died?
She was becoming nothing.
The darkness swallowed everything, and Jemma ended.
26
Terry watched Jemma stagger away. Watched her crumple under an overhanging stone shelf, seeking cool darkness. He remembered when it had been his sweet, loving wife who’d been the one crawling off into the shadows.
Virginia lay on a patch of sand near the stream, curled into a frail ball, her face broken. He remembered when Rebecca St. Germaine’s face looked very similar. When he touched her, the skin felt cold. He looked down upon the Virginia he remembered from the final time he brought her here, too thin, lines of worry and pain etched on her forehead. But she looked human.
He didn’t dare wonder about her soul. He knew what his late wife believed, and he hoped it wasn’t so. If it was, it meant she would burn in hell forever.
He liked to think there was more to it than that.
He stroked her cheek.
This meant he could go. Back to England. Home.
The orange sun sank lower in the sky. Mr. Lucky came to them, started to speak, but instead took in the tableau. Terry, cradling Virginia. Jemma nowhere to be found.
He turned and vanished into the jungle.
Some minutes later, he heard a boat’s engine start up. That was all right, Terry told himself, there was still Karen’s boat. Mr. Lucky was a savvy guy, though, he’d tow the
Lucky Daze
behind the
Baby Roxanne
, and Terry would never see either boat again.
Terry scooped Virginia’s body in his arms and carried her to the beach. It was the first she’d been in the sun in a long time. They sat by Karen—Terry couldn’t precisely tell if she was dead, and decided he didn’t care. They were all dead. For Jemma would be hungry. He settled in on the sand and stroked Virginia’s wispy white hair. And he waited.
Epilogue
The headache woke her, but the dryness and pain in her throat descended and consumed her as soon as she was conscious. Darkness surrounded her like a robe, and Jemma pulled it on in a way she’d never been able to before. She was hungry. Standing up was easy. Her limbs felt elastic, energized, and mobilized by starvation. Her tongue sat thick and dry in her mouth.
But there was food. She could smell it. The branches and vines of the jungle seemed to part for her, yield as she passed. This was her home, and she reigned as queen of her domain. There were interlopers here. For her to punish and consume.
She ran her hands over her taut flesh and snickered at the gauzy memories of her past modesty. Her body was fluid now. Could be anything she desired.
Jemma was hungry, and she strode forth into the night, toward the dark beach, to claim her prize.
About the
Aswang
I’ve taken some liberties with the
aswang
legend for this book. In popular Filipino folklore, the
aswang
is an evil, vampirelike creature that feeds off humans. The legend varies all around the Philippines, with some interesting geographical differences. I’ve chosen to focus on the
mananangal
(viscera sucker) portion of the legend, the one that’s most similar to our vampires.
Aswangs
are usually female, but they can be either gender. They have human origins, and can be created one of four ways: ritual, communication, contamination, or heredity. Both ritual and communication involve the transference of a black egg or a black chick into the body. A person can be cured of being an
aswang
, though it becomes more challenging the longer she’s been an
aswang
—the black chick must be purged and destroyed with fire. When the chick is coughed up, it will try to make its way back to the
aswang
’s mouth.
Legend holds that an
aswang
has a human form in the day, but at night it transforms into a monster. Traditionally they could fly, but I wanted my
aswang
trapped on the island, so I took that talent away. The
aswang
will locate a victim and drain their blood. They particularly enjoy draining unborn children. Sometimes they snatch babies from the crib. The
aswang
isn’t picky, and sometimes chooses to feast on the newly dead. It is said to remove corpses from places of mourning and replace them with bewitched banana trunks, which resemble the dead. It is particularly fond of liver.
Aswangs
can be destroyed with a precise strike with a bolo or a sharpened bamboo stick called a
bacagay
. The creature has to be hit where it cannot reach its wounds, as its saliva will heal it instantly. You can keep an
aswang
away with garlic or salt—remember that next time you vacation in the Philippines.
About the Author
If it screams, squelches, or bleeds, Kristin Dearborn has probably written about it. She revels in comments like “But you look so normal…how do you come up with that stuff?” A lifelong New Englander, she aspires to the footsteps of the local masters, Messrs. King and Lovecraft. When not writing or rotting her brain with cheesy horror flicks (preferably creature features!), she can be found scaling rock cliffs or zipping around Vermont on a motorcycle, or gallivanting around the globe. You can catch Kristin’s first novel,
Trinity
, from DarkFuse.
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