crown of gore

Her Daddy’s best ram was dead. Carrie killed it herself, cut its throat with the comfortable stroke of a practiced butcher. A batch of roosters were dead too: cemanis with glossy feathers, beaks, and flesh as dark as India ink.

The parts of the bodies she didn’t need were dressed and packed in the freezer. The rest of the meat was with her in the old barn. Rooster heads were piled in front of her, making a tower for the ram’s to balance on. Tongues lulled and eyes gone milky, they were starting to stink.

She knelt inside a circle, demarcated by a line of paint on a sheet of plywood from Daddy’s shop. In it with her were the slaughtered rooster’s feet and sheep intestines. The feet were strung on twine around her neck and the intestines, looped tight, made a crown for her head.

Lines of blood and slimy gut fluid leaked into her hair, matting her bangs. Some rolled down her forehead and cheeks. The stickiness made her itch, but she ignored it. It wasn’t important. She had to keep going. There wouldn’t be a second chance.

In front of her, haloed by candles stuck in place with wax, was a book so old it didn’t have a name. It was bound in some kind of leather and written in words she couldn't read. She’d have to trust the transliterations penciled between lines.

It came from a stash her Mama used to keep under the porch in a moldy old trunk. In life, the book had been one of Mama’s most prized possessions. In death, it was her daughter’s inheritance, same as it’d been hers.

Daddy didn’t know about it. Mama kept it a secret, and before passing had made Carrie promise to do the same. It wasn’t for men to know, Mama said, and never had been. If they knew, they’d want to burn it. Then you won’t be safe.

At the time, she hadn’t wondered what she needed to be kept safe from. She’d been too young; nothing really scared her then. If she thought hard enough, back to that day, she could remember thinking Mama was talking about coyotes.

She knew better now. The worst things in life don’t come from the woods.

Hands shaking from nerves, Carrie flipped through a few pages, eyeing the drawings in the margins around the text. Like the transliterations, they weren’t original. The pictographs had been inked in later by one of the last people who could read the book. Carrie wondered who that’d been: her grandmother, great-grandmother, someone older? Whoever they were, they’d ensured illiteracy wouldn’t kill the family practice.

“Malla rey bandey lo.” Carrie read the first line uncertainly. She’d never heard anyone say those words and worried she wouldn’t get the emphasis right. If she didn’t, she didn’t know what would happen. Mama hadn’t said. 

Mama hadn’t even told her what would happen if she got every part of one of the rituals right. Better you don’t know, she’d said between coughs. That way, it can’t tempt you. Don’t even think about it until you’re out of options.

For the most part, Carrie did what she was told. In the years since Mama’s funeral, she’d only taken the book out a handful of times. She kept the trunk key under a loose board beneath her bed, only breaking it out once or twice a year to make sure the book was safe. She never untied the thick leather thong that kept it shut or read from the pages. Until now, Carrie had resisted the siren song.

“Echee na fila—” She trailed off, eyes skating to the margins. There, she saw a crudely rendered hand cut across the palm. It dripped blood onto an insignia she’d already painted onto her ply board. Hers was sloppy, drawn in the dark, but recognizable.

After wiping the knife she’d used to cut the ram’s throat on her shirt, she pressed the tip to her palm and slashed. The sting made her wince and the wound welled with blood immediately. She had to make a fist to keep it from spilling.

“Doona, Doona.” That was a name. She knew that much. A scrap of language she could read scrawled at the top of the page said so. “Gramenki fa Doona.” She smeared her injury over the insignia. When she pulled away, it burned before going tingly. “Gramenki fa Doona.”

The ritual and its crammed-in transliteration ended, but there was one more pictograph on the page. It showed a knife plunging into the middle of a word along the top of the circle. Carrie’s version of that wasn’t pretty either, but it’d do.

Pulse fluttering, she flipped her knife around and jabbed it into place. It sank deep into an o, the wood giving more easily than it should’ve. It didn’t feel like wood at all. It felt like flesh. 

Outside, something screamed. Carrie jumped and snatched her hand away from the blade, leaving it buried in the board point-down. The wind picked up, suddenly gusting, obscuring the sound before burying it, leaving her to wonder—had she heard a scream at all? 

With it gone, she wasn’t sure. Even if it had been a scream, it could’ve come from all sorts of wild animals. It was bad timing, she reasoned; anxiety was affecting her hearing. It was a coyote or feral cats fighting. Probably.

She took a few deep breaths, forcing them to come evenly, and made sure she was centered in the circle. She twisted left and right, checking that no part of her breached the protection. When she was sure, she cradled her injured hand and waited.

It wasn’t comfortable. The plywood was old and shredding in places. Splinters dug into her knees, and like her hand, they hurt. She tried to ignore it like she was ignoring the stink of blood and stomach acid. She focused her breathing, quieting it down so she could listen.

Through the doorway she was facing, open and as dilapidated as the rest of the barn, she could see the east cornfield. Wide as a sea and taller than she was, the stalks swayed, stuck in the wind that seemed to have come from nowhere.

Other than the wind, the night was quiet and dark. The nearest big city was a hundred miles from Daddy’s farm. Light pollution didn’t bleed out that far. If it weren’t for the cloud cover, Carrie would’ve been able to see billions of stars. Usually, light from them and the moon made the corn shine, turning the stalks silvery. But that night, light from above only broke through occasionally, and she had to strain her eyes to scan the front line of crops.

Her eyes moved slowly, seeking a wider, deeper patch of blackness that marked the head of a beaten path. When she found it, she locked onto it, squinting to sharpen her focus. That’s where it would come from, if anything came. 

If she hadn’t botched the ritual; if she hadn’t killed livestock for nothing. She prayed she hadn’t, but didn’t know to who. Her parents had never been church people, and the last time she’d gone was Easter five years ago. She didn’t think she was talking to God. Maybe the land, or what it was that roiled under the rows.

After a few minutes, her head started to ache behind the eyes. Heaving a sigh, she closed and rubbed them, letting her shoulders slump. Nothing was happening. She’d done the ritual and shed her blood just like the book said; why hadn’t it worked? Mama told her...

Maybe Mama lied.

No. It wasn’t Mama. It was Carrie; had to be. She’d drawn, said, or copied something wrong. She’d have to start over, remake the circle and open her wound again, which would take time. A lot of time. Time she didn’t have.

Carrie’s throat clamped tight. She had to swallow to loosen it up. It hurt. She bit her lip, refusing to cry. It wouldn’t help; it never did. All it did was make her feel helpless, which she wasn’t. She wasn’t. She could do this, she—

Movement at the edge of her vision stopped her short. She’d bent to blow out the candles and close the book, trying to remember where she’d left the paint and spare piece of ply board, when it snagged her attention. She looked up, squinting again, expecting to see a coyote or mangy old cat.

It wasn’t a coyote or cat. It wasn’t even by the cornfield. It was in the yard, loping oddly.

No. It was crawling. It took Carrie’s mind a while to register, but when it did, her stomach dropped. Whatever it was, it wasn’t an animal she was used to. It was large, low to the ground, and dragging itself along like an injured man. 

The top half of its body rose and slumped as it clawed along, the back half unresponsive. Its motions were stunted but it moved unnaturally fast, tearing up chunks of earth with its groping hands as it jerked nearer. At one point, no more than five feet from the door, it stopped and raised its head to peer inside.
She locked eyes with—she didn’t know what, but it made her bowels scream. It wasn’t an animal, but it wasn’t quite a man, either. It had the vague shape of one: a torso topped with shoulders, a head, and long arms. It was ruined, though. It looked half melted and globby, as if a child had smashed it together with handfuls of damp clay. The face, illuminated by a dagger of moonlight, was collapsing. Its skull looked crushed. There were empty dips where eyes should’ve been and a slack, open mouth with nothing inside. No teeth or tongue, just a punched out maw.

It jumped the threshold and Carrie whimpered, stomach churning at the sight and sound of its misshapen body dragging the floor. It pulled closer, empty holes watching her, leaking greasy black mud from the mouth and the ragged end of its body, shredded below the hips. Its audible breathing made little clouds like hers did in winter, and the stink—god, the stink was overwhelming. 

The chunky, curdled smell of milk left in the sun and bacterial mud filled the barn. Carrie swayed, dizzy from it and the frantic rush of her blood. Her legs were numb. She couldn’t have run from the circle if she wanted to.

“Are you,” she began, swallowing the urge to gag. The thing stopped a few inches back from the circle. Pressed up on its palms, it cocked its head. Some of the flies swarming the meat pile buzzed in interest and landed on it. “Are you Doona?”

The thing growled, expelling a puff of rancid breath, and looked away from her to examine the meat. It brought its face close to the heap as if to smell it and came away with blood and plasma streaked across its cheeks.

“It is,” the thing said, though she couldn’t see how. Its mouth didn’t move, but she still heard it. Its voice was shredded, like the thing had spent decades screaming.

“You grant wishes?”

“It can.”

“Then hear me. Grant mine.”

She straightened her back, trying to look commanding. Small as she was, she had the height advantage. The thing, stretched on its belly, wouldn’t be able to stand. It looked less like it lost its legs and more like it’d never had them; like whoever had smashed its body together had gotten bored and walked away before finishing. 

Doona was as wet and shapeable as throwing clay. The same black mud that drooled out of its mouth left a streaky trail behind it. A pool was collecting under its hips, spreading to join the slow leak of gore from the pile of meat. Doona pressed up with one arm, and with the other reached for the stinking morsels and started to pick through them. 

“It is listening,” it said, selecting a plump rooster head. It stuffed the offering into its maw and swallowed it whole. Feathers, beak, and bone went down without a crunch. When it was done, Doona gave a groan that made Carrie queasy.

“I want my Daddy dead,” she said aloud for the first time. She’d never even written it in her diary, but she’d thought about it. What started as fantasy had developed into a dire need. 

The creature plucked two more heads from the pile. “Then a girl should kill him.”

It popped both into its mouth and swallowed like they were nothing. The answer was so unexpected that it took a moment to register. When it did, Carrie sputtered, “What?”

“Doona does not deal in petty death.” 

It’d shoved four more heads down its throat and was selecting a fifth before she spoke again. 

“But you grant wishes.”

“It can,” Doona corrected, giving up gorging long enough to wag a finger. It ticked back and forth, greased from within like the mud near an oil rig. The hand and whole ugly body looked flammable. “It is not a girl’s slave. It can refuse, and a girl can kill her father for herself.” 

Tired of rooster, the creature dug a finger behind one of the ram’s eyeballs. It popped free and rolled like a gumball into Doona’s palm. 

“No,” Carrie said, shaking her head. “No, I can’t.”

Some of her panic faded, overridden by the shock of being told no. That possibility wasn’t in the book. The ritual, she thought, was a binding contract. A summoned demon did as it was told, collected payment, then left.

“Why not?” Doona popped the other eyeball free, tossing both into its mouth, then went back for the rooster heads. It gobbled up three huge handfuls, smearing jellified gore on its chin. “Is a girl too weak? Is she afraid?”

A spark of anger singed her. “I’m not afraid.”

“Liar. A girl reeks of fear.” Doona tilted its battered head curiously and picked at the ram’s cheek. It tore shreds of meat free while it watched her. “Does her father hurt her?”

The question lacked empathy. Clinical and flat, it reminded her of the few times she’d gone to the doctor as a girl. He’d read her weight, height, and temperature off a paper in that same tone, and it made her feel smaller than anything.

“No,” she said again.

This time, it was true. Her Daddy had never laid a hand on her. He barely even spoke to her. He looked though, and as she grew, the looks got longer. She could feel his eyes on her, greasing over everything he wanted.

She couldn’t remember when it started. Maybe he’d always done it. Maybe Mama had noticed before she died, suspected that something was coming she wouldn’t be around to stop. Maybe that’s why she told Carrie about the book. 

There hadn’t been anyone else after Mama died. Daddy never remarried. It was just the two of them in the house. Carrie stayed gone as much as she could during the day. When school was in that was easier, but summers were sinkholes. There was so much work to do and Daddy needed her.

He told her that sometimes, emphasizing the word in a way that made her want to peel off her skin. He’d never taken anything, though. Not from her. Somehow she was untouchable, but he’d taken it from others. She knew. 

Girls go missing, everywhere and all the time, and nothing ever comes out of the investigation. That was especially true in the nowhere pits of Iowa. Girls disappeared and got called troublemakers, hookers, runaways—everything but taken, and that was the end of it.

No one but their families kept an eye on missing persons and lurid ‘body found’ reports from other towns. No one except for Carrie. She collected papers and scoured online forums like the girls who’d gone missing were her sisters. Too many looked like her. Same skin tone, hair, eye color, height, and build. It was like finding an old, blurry photograph. If she squinted, she and the girls were indistinguishable.

She heard it—sometimes, not always—when it happened. Even if she hadn’t stalked the news, she still would’ve known. He never brought them into the house. That would’ve been dangerous; they had a phone. He kept them in his shed for hours or days instead. He wandered in and out of it like he was stepping away from a project, face stone smooth and so serene. On those days, he talked more to Carrrie than he usually ever did. It was like a weight had been lifted, or he’d finally worked a deep knot out of a muscle.
They screamed, even when he left them. The sound made Carrie sick and so afraid that sometimes she wouldn’t leave the house until it was over. She’d curl up in bed, lock her door and jam the handle, and wait for the screams to go quiet. For it to end.

“Someone a girl loves?” Doona asked, sounding fractionally more interested than before.

She made a desperate, pathetic sound. Love them? She didn’t know them, hadn’t ever even tried to help them. 

The creature was right. She was afraid.

“Just someone,” she muttered, feeling guilty. “But it will be me. I feel it coming. I’m who he really wants, and he’s getting bored with knock-offs. He won’t settle for one again. I’m out of time.”

It’d been over a year since Daddy had taken a girl. Usually, he didn’t wait even half that long, but the last hadn’t gone so well. He’d only had her for an hour when somehow—was he distracted?—she broke loose. 

Carrie heard the commotion through her bedroom window, a crash and scream like she’d never heard before. She slinked out of bed to investigate and reached the window in time to see the shed door swinging on its hinges and a girl running into the cornfield. 

She didn’t get away. Daddy knew that field. He ran in after her, loading buckshot into his gun. The stalks closed behind him, swallowing him and the girl whole. Carrie heard shots, and a few minutes later watched Daddy drag the girl’s body out by the ankles.

He’d been worse since then: stiffer than usual, more volatile. He broke things, shouted and cussed, and drank heavily. He never sat still for long and his hands were always busy, fiddling with a piece of wire or knife. His attention had gotten more heated and predatory. Carrie felt like a piece of meat waiting to be carved. His eyes moved over her the way some people’s eyes moved over fattened livestock. Every night, when the hall outside her door creaked, she expected to die.

The creature made a considerate sound, then ducked its head and slurped at the offering. Heads and slimy viscera disappeared into its maw. When it pulled away, a circle of floor looked like it’d been mopped clean.

“How would a girl want her father to die?”

Carrie didn’t have to think about it. “Slowly. I want it to hurt. I want them to do it.”

Raising a shaking hand, she pointed to the cornfield. That’s where Daddy buried girls. She was sure. It was a huge swath of land that bled into five other farms. A thousand corpse dogs couldn’t find them. They were gone.

“And what else?” Doona slurped at the remainders of its meal, vacuuming up wet meat like its belly was a void. “Does a girl know what she’s trading?”

Carrie nodded soberly. “Ten years off my life.”

What did that really mean, she wondered? How long was she destined to live in the first place? Would Doona tell her? Probably not. Even if it knew, what would it care? It was a demon. Those kinds of details were secondary.

The creature growled in affirmation, and in a nerve pinching voice asked, “Is this death worth the trade?”

It would be, she thought, even if that was all she wanted. 

“The farm,” she added. “I want to keep it. The bank will try to seize it when he’s dead. Daddy— he’s bad in debt. He almost ruined us. But I can save it. I can turn it around. I know I can. I just need time.”

Foreclosure had been a looming threat for most of her life. Daddy barely kept ahead of the bills, but the last few years it had gotten worse. His obsession with the girls, her doomed doubles, distracted him. He forgot to pay farmhands, let crops wither and livestock die. The only thing that still made money was the corn. The homestead was on the brink of repossession, but she was determined. It was hers by birthright, and she would save it.

Carrie didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to work in a diner, superstore, or on someone else’s farm. She wanted to stay right there and work the land until she died, however near or far away that day was.

Doona considered the request, finishing the meat she’d left for it. When all the rooster heads were gone and the ram’s skull was picked half clean, cheekbones peeking out through ragged hangs of flesh, it said, “A home and a death for a decade. A girl agrees?”

“I do.”

It growled, deep and sated. “Then it shall be.”

The words came out as a hiss, melting into a string of others in a language Carrie didn’t understand. They made her itch under the skin, and she imagined them as parasites burrowing to mark her from within.

Around them, the barn creaked, caught in another sudden wind she hadn’t heard kicking up. It didn’t blow in over the fields; it swept from below like a burst of steam, causing the old building to shudder and list. The noise drowned out Doona’s hissing, making a howl so loud she was sure Daddy would wake. The roof bowed, dropping slats the length of her leg. One clattered into her circle, and instinct kicked in. Carrie ducked.

Like she did during school tornado drills, she curled up small and covered her head. She weaved her shaking hands together and started praying again, dreading the moment the thing she’d summoned brought the barn down. It would bury and crush her. She would die and Daddy wouldn’t. The creature had tricked her, but—at least Daddy wouldn’t get to do it.

As suddenly as it started, the wind stopped. The walls swayed, caught up in their weight and momentum, but eventually settled. The wood creaked painfully, threatening to fall in the next slightest breeze. 

One didn’t come. The air had gone dead again. 

Doona’s sibilant chanting faded with the wind. Carrie couldn’t hear anything but her own ragged breathing and a rustle in the cornfield. Cautiously, she peeked out from the shelter of her arms.

Doona was gone. She was alone.

The only signs that the creature had been there were twin smears of the black mud that leaked from its hips. The trails Doona made coming and going looked like blood where slants of moonlight, allowed in by new breaks in the roof, landed on them.

“Doona?” she called, voice barely above a whisper.

It didn’t answer. Another rustle came from the cornfield, but it could’ve been caused by anything from a loose dog to a nightbird. Had she really— had Doona—

Something shrieked.

The high, warbling sound came from way out in the field. It sounded miles away. The second was closer, and the third, fifth, seventh were near enough to make her ears ring. 

Carrie’s blood pooled in her feet. She recognized them. 

More came, their different pitches bouncing off one another, unable to blend, layering terribly. The corn rustled, stalks shaking and bending, some even falling, crushed by the bodies moving through them.

Carrie’s breath locked up in her chest. Her joints felt rusted. She couldn’t stand or leave the circle, and wasn’t sure she wanted to. New screams busted up from the earth, more than two dozen, broken by labored grunts and the fleshy sounds of bodies falling to the ground and into each other. Hobbled by mutilation and stiff from the cycle of seasons, the dead things, the girls, crept in.

Some had been buried for over a decade. They’d move the slowest. There wouldn’t be much left of them but broken bones and hate. There were fresher kills, though, the most recent only dead a year.

She’d be the fastest. She already was. She’d almost gotten away.

Vision tunneling and feeling faint, Carrie leaned forward and rested her weight on both her hands. The sliced one stung. She ignored the throb of pain. Refusing to let her head hang, she stared out at the cornfield.

Daddy had guests, and this time she wouldn’t look away.