Steamy Screams: Anthology of Erotic Horror

HAG RIDE Eden Royce

Frieda stood in the kitchen’s fading light with a chopping knife clutched in one hand. The dinner on the table laid untouched, ice-cold and bathing in congealing fat. Her cinnamon coloring disguised the angry flare of heat in her cheeks. Still, she knew yelling wouldn’t get her husband’s attention, so she forced a calm tone into her voice.

“Why aren’t you staying for dinner? I made your favorite.”

“I told you, I got to go out.” Henry came out of their bedroom, buttoning up his good shirt and tucking it into the slacks she had taken her time to press that morning.

“Out where? You can’t eat dinner with your wife before you go? Give me some of your time?”

“Thought I just gave you some,” Henry laughed, his tongue grotesquely pink against his smooth ebony face. He waggled his long, limp penis at her before he tucked it into his pants.

“Good thing you put that away. I was going to lop it off.”

“You wasn’t gon’ do that to this valuable piece of merchandise.”

“I wanted to spend some time with you. Just us. Like we used to.” Tears threatened to fall from her maple syrup-colored eyes.

“A man needs some time to hisself, baby. I told you that long time ago.”

“I know, but…”

He took a pick from his back pocket, the metal one with a balled up fist for a handle and ran it through his short, tight afro. In the hall mirror, he patted it with both palms to even out the ‘do.

“You never said where you were going.”

“Goin’ out with the fellas,” Henry said. “Relax and get a couple drinks.”

“You look mighty nice for a night out with Butch and that gang. You promised me no more sleeping around, Henry.”

“I know, baby, I know. Don’t you worry ‘bout nothing.” He kissed her cheek and grabbed a pork chop from the platter before heading for the door.

“When are you gonna be home?”

“Late, baby. Real late.”

Frieda parked the aging Chevy at the edge of the dirt road leading to the marsh. She sat in the driver’s seat with the window down and breathed in the sulfurous scent of pluff mud and sea grass. Although the marsh teemed with life, loneliness pressed in on her like an unwelcome suitor in the dark.

She walked along the water’s edge toward the small house nestled in the marsh’s protective embrace, unafraid in the blackness. The moon parted the dark in shifting layers as clouds crept across the Carolina sky. As the toe of her shoe hit the porch, the front door creaked open.

“Evening, Big Mama,” she said.

Big Mama was barely on the right side of six feet without shoes. Her massive bosom filled the doorway like shells in a double-barreled shotgun. Her hair, fluffy and cotton white, stood out against pecan tan skin.

“Lawd, Frieda. You here in the middle of the night? I know what this must be. Come on in.” The Gullah accent, born on the coastal waterways of the Carolinas, was musical as it fell from her dark, unpainted lips.

The muggy night gave way to the cool marsh breeze fluttering through the thin curtains. Frieda sat at the rough-hewn table in the middle of what served as the cabin’s kitchen while Big Mama bustled around in cabinets and muttered under her breath. She returned to the table with two jelly jars filled with rose-colored liquid.

“Big Mama, I—”

“Drink some of this first.”

The homemade liquid scorched her throat and she coughed, but the burning cleared her head. The swirling thoughts she’d brought to the cabin solidified into a concrete block of determination. She took another sip while her godmother pulled a cheroot and a lighter from her generous bosom. The sweet scents of tobacco and clove danced entwined.

“What Henry done now?” The wicker chair creaked as Big Mama settled her bulk into it.

“Same old. Still cheating. Staying out all night. I’m tired of it.”

“Mmmph.” Rings of smoke dissolved in the air.

“I’m married. I shouldn’t have to bump around in that house alone all the time.”

“That why you got married? To never be alone?” Her snort made smoke shoot down from her wide nostrils like an enraged bull. “I got news for you, chile. Alone you come in this world and alone you go out. Nothing gone change that.”

“I got married because I love him. I just want him to love me back.”

“Henry love you in his own way. But that ain’t the way you want, huh?”

“I can’t live like this.”

“You still a beautiful, young woman. Find yourself somebody else. Don’t let no man be the death of you. Not like your Daddy was to your Momma.”

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. “I don’t want another man. I made a promise before God and everybody and I will not leave Henry.”

Big Mama tapped ashes in a chipped china teacup. “He ain’t worth the heartache. You better off alone.”

“I don’t ever want to be alone again. I hate it.”

“You sure it not his ding-a-ling you missin’?”

“That’s not the problem.” Her face heated under Big Mama’s intense gaze.

“No shame in it, girl. You supposed to like going to bed with your husband. That what make him feel like a man. But it seem your man like going to everybody else’s bed.” A look of sympathy crossed the heavy woman’s face. “You can’t change him. You married him that way.”

The heat in Frieda’s face blazed. Henry had been late for their wedding. Big Mama and Francis, her fourth husband, found him drunk in a motel room with a street girl. Only Francis’ cool head kept Big Mama from killing Henry right then. She’d pulled a derringer from her bra and pointed it at the naked couple. The girl screamed and held the crusty motel sheet to her nude body and ran for the door.

Big Mama grabbed her arm and whispered something in her ear before letting her go. Then she waited while Francis cleaned Henry up and they headed for the church. Frieda and Henry were married an hour later.

“I can’t change him, but you can,” Frieda said.

Big Mama extinguished the cigar and drained her glass of wine, but said nothing.

Frieda rushed on, “You can fix it so he never strays from me again. You can put him in a jar or something. I’ve seen you work root. That’s why people are scared of you.”

Big Mama laughed. “They scared ‘cause they think root worse than voodoo. Ain’t true. They both dangerous, in the right hand.” The chair groaned as Big Mama leaned back and looked at the ceiling of what had once been slave quarters. “Puttin’ his spirit in a jar don’t stop no man from cattin’ no ways. Only one thing can do that.”

“The Hag.”

“Right. And the Hag ain’t nothin’ to play with. Not even for me.”

“But you can do it.”

“Oh, sure I can do it. But I ain’t.”

Frieda got up from her chair and knelt beside the woman who’d taken her in after her mother’s death. “Big Mama, please. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Leave well enough alone.”

“I love him. I need him.”

“You ain’t gonna let this go, huh?” She shook her head and a sigh fell from her lips. “Lawd, that man’s thing must jump up and do a dance inside you.” She fingered the damp, pulpy end of the cigar. “I can tell you this: if I send the Hag after him, ain’t no telling what gone happen.”

“She’ll take all that extra energy of his. He’ll have just enough left for me.”

“That what supposed to happen. But I jus’ call her. Ain’t no way to control her. She do as she please.” Her pause lasted several loping heartbeats. “And no man ever the same after she done with him.”

“I understand.”

“When is your woman time?”

“It’s here now.”

The two women sat on the hardwood floor of the cabin with moonlight illuminating Big Mama’s mis en place for the ritual. Two piles of sea salt, a wad of Henry’s coarse hair tied with butcher’s twine and six blood smeared candles sat next to the refilled juice glasses.

“This your last chance, Frieda. Think this through.”

The younger woman’s face remained resolute. “I’m done thinking.”

Big Mama nodded and lit the first candle. Murky shadows danced to its flickering. When the final candle began to glow, she spoke. “Get me a hidin’ man.”

Frieda smoothed her shirtdress and tiptoed out to the marsh, her Keds squishing in the soft, dank mud. The moon was a smile in the darkness as she looked for a stalk of seagrass leaning heavily to the ground. Finding one, she crouched to complete her task, her feet sinking deeper into the cool, black muck. She plucked a conical shell from the crisp grass and hurried back inside.

Big Mama placed the open end of the shell against her neck and hummed low in her throat. The hum filled the small room, vibrated across the floor to imbed itself in Frieda’s chest and infuse her limbs with its eerie, toneless rumble.

She pulled the shell away from her throat and Frieda saw a small, pale crab, stirred by the vibration, peek out of the shell. Big Mama yanked it from its home and pulled a switchblade, slick with sweat from the depths of her bosom. In one motion, she opened the knife and skewered the frightened crustacean to the floor before it could scuttle away. Henry’s clump of hair covered the crab’s death throes. She took a gulp of the caustic wine, spat it on the gruesome pile and touched a candle to it. It burned, not destroying the wooden floor, while both women took up the humming again.

Wind came, strong through the curtains and the hovering shadows coalesced into a swirling ash grey mass.

“She here. Be ready with the salt.”

The grey cloud moved around the calling space, stopping at each candle, before it slunk between the two women to examine its sacrifice. Satisfied, it slid over to Frieda and swayed like a cobra. She could feel a presence inside her mind, inside her chest and she gasped as it probed at her most tender heartaches. Crushing memories rushed to the surface of her psyche: Henry’s countless betrayals, looks of pity from the local women, laughter from the men. Frieda’s chest seized. She gasped for breath as scabs, new and old, tore from each emotional wound. It delved deeper in its search and tears grew behind Frieda’s fluttering eyelids. Her chest heaved and shook with impending sobs.

“The salt. Throw the salt!”

Frieda’s arm shook with the effort of tossing the small handful of salt over her left shoulder. While most of it found its way down the front of her dress, enough landed behind her to end the Hag’s internal quest. The smoky funnel whirled and danced with its newfound knowledge.

Brought to the surface again, her pain crystallized into diamond hard resolve.

The ache eased enough for her to gasp, “Make him stay with me.”

The whirlwind roiled with fervor, covering the wine-soaked crab carcass in its dervish. When it finally moved, only the switchblade remained. The coil of ash rose in the thick, muggy air and hovered above the women. One word came from the twisting center’s eye.

“Agreed.”

It extinguished each candle, then dissipated to leave the women surrounded by darkness and the scent of charred sulfur.

“Hey, Henry.”

“What’s happenin’, my man?” Henry’s palm met his friend’s in an intricate succession of slaps before he sat on the next barstool in the smoky lounge.

George “Butch” Dempsey took a sip of scotch and turned a shrewd eye on Henry. “Same old, same old. Working till I die.”

“I hear that.”

“What you doing here, anyway? Ain’t this your anniversary night?”

“Shee-it. I was wondering why Frieda was so hell bent on having dinner with me. Shoulda known.” He ordered a boilermaker from the bartender and rubbed a broad hand over his face. “How you remember my anniversary and I don’t?”

“’Cause y’all got married six years ago on Janey’s birthday and I never forget Janey’s birthday.”

“Right, right. How she doing?”

“Janey? Oh, she has good days and bad days. Starting to be more bad days. But her mama’s with her. Give me a few hours rest.”

“I couldn’t be sick like that. You know, live my life sick. I wanna go quick. Don’t want nobody giving up they life for me.” He glanced at Butch. “I don’t mean nothin’ by that, what you do for Janey is good, it’s—”

“Yeah, I know.” He drained his glass and stood. “I better get on home.” But he no longer had Henry’s attention.

“Uh-huh.” Henry’s gaze was fixed on a woman at the end of the bar. He rose from the barstool as though she’d bid him, picked up the shot glass and the bottle of beer.

“Where’d she come from?” Butch frowned at the sly smile on the strange woman’s lips. A chill crept through his bulky frame and gooseflesh grew on his meaty arms.

“Don’t know. But I’m gonna find out. “

“No, I mean, she wasn’t there a minute ago,” Butch said.

“Then she come through the back door.” He shook off the hand Butch placed on his shoulder. “You disturbing my groove.”

“You need to stay away from that one. She seem… freaky.”

“That just what I’m hoping. Catch you on the flip side, man.”

“Henry, wait.”

But Henry didn’t respond. He had the scent and nothing could get him off the trail.

Butch watched his friend approach the mystery woman. He started forward to intercept him and the woman looked up, straight into his eyes. Her grey-blue gaze, startling against her tawny skin, held him fast.

All ambient sound from the crowded bar faded. Butch felt himself grow hard and the throbbing ached like a wound. His skin itched like it was covered in dirt. He dug his short nails into his arm with ruthless fervor. Angry welts rose up and still he raked his flesh, unable to get rid of the feeling that she was on him, in him, crawling around.

He yelped when his blunt nails broke skin. The mental hold loosened and he was able to move. Without another glance at Henry, Butch pushed through the throng of people and ran from the bar.

The woman was chatting with the bartender as Henry strolled up. “Hey man, give the lady here another one of what she drinking.” He gave her hourglass figure a lingering once-over. “I’m Henry. And you sure is foxy.”

“And you’re a little cocky.”

“You got me wrong.” He took a long pull from his beer then pointed toward her with the bottle. “I’m a big cocky.”

She almost choked on a sip of strawberry daiquiri, but it turned into a spurt of laughter. “I haven’t heard that one before.”

“What’s your name?”

“Does it matter? You’ll only forget it afterwards.”

He leaned closer and her fragrance glided over the smokiness of the bar, a tangy mixture of sea air and citrus fruit. “After what, little mama?”

A coy smile accompanied her words. “After tonight.”

“Now, how you know what gon’ happen tonight? I might decide to take my time and court you.”

She shook her head and chestnut ringlets brushed her bare shoulders. “It’s my last night in town.”

“You got people here?”

“No, it’s a business trip for me.”

“Business? What kinda work you do?”

She ran her tongue over her straight, smooth teeth. “I make people over.”

Henry nodded. “Hair and makeup and stuff. Cool. Cool.” He downed the shot of whisky. “So, this your last night, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“That’s a shame. Guess I’m gonna have to work fast.” He slapped a ten down on the counter and stood.

“Not too fast, I hope.”

“You must make some serious bread. This ain’t no cheap motel.” Henry strolled around the expansive suite, whistling at all the extra touches. Fresh flowers stood in crystal a vase on the side table next to an overflowing fruit basket.

“I like to be comfortable when I travel.” She tossed her clutch purse on the bedside table.

“This ain’t comfortable. This is… nice. Real nice.” The sound of a zipper yanked his gaze back to the bed. She stepped out of the purple satin puddle at her feet and stood, clad in only a black strapless bra and panties, in the middle of the room.

“Well, don’t stop now.” He unbuttoned his own shirt and tossed it on the floor as he strode over to her. She nudged him toward the king-sized bed.

“Why don’t you lie down and watch the rest?”

“Oh, yeah. I like that, baby.”

Henry lay down in the middle of the bed and watched her reach behind her back to unhook her bra. Her high breasts sprang free from their confines and he salivated at the sight of her dark, hard nipples. She climbed onto the foot of the bed and crawled up Henry’s body, her grey-blue eyes laughing with challenge.

She straddled his waist and ground herself against his hardness as she brushed her breast over his lips. He opened his mouth and sucked on the stiffened tip. Warm liquid flowed into his mouth and after his initial surprise, he suckled harder. He tried to pull her closer, but his body resisted. It trembled with the vain effort of movement. His eyes widened.

“No, Henry. You don’t get to touch me.” Her silky voice darkened as her milk soured in his mouth. Lumpy curds drained down his cheeks. He gagged, tried to turn his head and spit, but his lips were fused to her slick flesh.

“You asked me what my name was,” she said as her fingers stroked his throat, forcing him to swallow the thick pap. Her swollen nipple popped from his mouth when she leaned back to remove her brief panties. “It’s Eldra.” As the silk slid down her thighs, fat drops of her vaginal fluid fell onto the crotch of the panties, bleaching the fabric a sickly yellow-white.

Eldra draped the ruined underwear over Henry’s face, ignoring his gurgled protests as the caustic fabric burned his skin. “But you may know me better as ‘The Hag’.” She slid down to his crotch, bristly public hair like needles in his groin as her talons ripped through denim and exposed the length of him. She squatted, her legs wide and her nether lips open to expose two rows of glinting silver-white teeth.

His scream bubbled through the lumps in his throat as she lowered herself onto his stiff penis. Eldra shoved her fingers into Henry’s open mouth, turned the panties into a putrid gag as she rode him with demonic wildness while he lay immobile, unable to stop the flesh-rending fuck.

Hours later, Eldra climbed off his limp, wasted body. She gave an impressed grunt. “Ooh, Henry. You’re still hard.” She took the mutilated penis in her palms and gripped it, holding the flayed pieces together. Her salt and citrus scent filled the room as she lowered her acidic mouth again and again.

“We patched him up the best we could, Miz Frieda.” The young nurse said before she opened the door to Henry’s room.

Frieda whispered, “How bad is it?”

The nurse hesitated. “It’s… uh… He’s been asking for you.”

“Frieda? That you?” Henry’s voice was high with panic.

“I’ll be at the desk if you need anything.” The nurse made a hasty exit.

“Frieda, please. I need you.”

She rushed to his beside and pulled back the dividing curtain. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked at her disfigured husband, small and shriveled in the middle of the hospital bed. He reached out a shaky hand to her, his eyes wide and white and staring.

Frieda heard him crying out for her as she whirled and fled the room.

“Please! Don’t leave me. Frieda!”