100 Proof
By
Kimberly I. Moore
It was pitch black. The energy was palatable. Soft chanting rose and ebbed, rose and ebbed. It was the type of darkness that your eyes never get used to. They attempt to adjust but it’s too dark, too black. The air smelled of incense and salt. A chill slipped through the chamber, making some of the chanters falter for a moment.
In the darkness, hooded figures in black formed a circle. They continued to chant. Their voices were melodic and insistent. Rising and falling, rising and falling.
Suddenly: a light. It shone down from the ceiling, it’s bright white unnatural light stark against the darkness. It did little more than light up the center of attention.
In the middle of the room, directly under the spotlight, was a woman. She crouched on the ground, her head bowed. The light shown on her hairless head. She was naked, her body giving a bit of her age away. She wasn’t yet old, but not too young either. Yet there was something wrong with her.
The woman raised her head, her body staying in a crouched position. Her face told a story of pain. There were bags under her eyes, and her skin was so pale as to almost be translucent. Her head had been shaved, but it didn’t have any growth coming out. Her brown eyes were trapped in hollows, but were still bright and alive.
She looked at the hooded figures, seemed to dismiss them and looked directly in front of her. There was a thick white line circling her. It was at least 5 feet across and did not break in any places. Past them were the chanters, and behind them large pillars of cold stone raising up to the ceiling. The floor she crouched on was concrete and she wondered for a moment what kind of building this was, with hard cold floors and hard cold walls. What good could come of a place like this? This building held no love, nor light, nor help from pain.
The woman sighed and stood up. She felt fear trying to work it’s way into her mind, and she attempted to shove it away. This was what she had to do. It was this or let the cancer consume her.
Her weary body straightened up. She winced, there was pain there, insidious and foreign. The chanting because louder, and she knew this was it. It had begun. Of course, hadn’t it begun years ago? A slight smiled touched her face. Then the noise started, and all hell broke loose.
Beyond the salt circle the chanting had reached a fever pitch. The chanters were no longer quiet, they were yelling, and something was yelling back. The woman saw the energy building around her. It was in the form of a violent wind. The chanters had to back up, all of them, against the buildings walls. They were almost invisible in the darkness now, but she could hear them still trying to chant.
Fear took hold. She was, she had to admit, terrified. For some reason the wind did not go through the salt circle. She was standing in a vortex. She watched, scared – detached though from the damage of the storm. Through her fear a voice was clear in her mind. It was her own voice, and it was telling her to do what must be done. Just do it and get it over with. If it was the end of her, so be it. Better than the slow death she was living.
The woman stepped forward, and with her foot she kicked the salt line and broke it.
Salt flew away into the storm, and then salt came back at her… and the storm came with it.
They rushed into the opening, going for the woman. They had been summoned and now they would do what they came for. They grabbed her, all the hundreds of ghosts that had been rallying outside the salt circle. They grabbed her, lifted her up and even shook her – greedy to eat the bad cells that her body had made.
The woman held strong to her mind. It was not easy. The lives of a hundred or more ghosts went through her mind and she lived each one. She knew them from birth to death, and tears streamed down her cheeks with overwhelming happiness and sadness, of joy and crushing pain. She lost children, gained grandchildren, lived though national disasters and died in the arms of a lover. It was overwhelming, but she held on to who she was like a pit bull with a bone. Her teeth were clenched in symbolic holding of her sanity.
And then it was over. The wind – ghosts, departed as suddenly as they had come. She fell to the ground and lay there, her body covered in sweat. Some of the chanters were still there. They watched her expectantly.
The lady rose to her feet. It was different now, wasn’t it? She rose up like a queen. As they rushed to give her a robe, they saw that she was not the same woman who had been there before. She was healthy. The disease that had been eating her alive was gone now, the ghosts had taken it away – perhaps as a thank you for sharing their lives.
She was disease free, yes, but also stronger than that. When she looked them in the eyes, they backed away slightly. She was not one to be taken lightly. The lady smiled. She smiled so big that it hurt her mouth. Yes, she was cured.
She walked out of the hospital a short time later and stopped outside the doors. When she had come in she had been broken and on the way out. Now here she was, ready to take life on, on her terms. It felt so good and freeing that a single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.
Kimberly I. Moore has been writing off and on since she was 10 yrs old. It all started with a cat in a magic roller skate and has become a desire to share dark fiction with the world. She has lived many places, but mainly resides in your darkest dreams and nightmares. Her and her 14 year old daughter like to frequent the mountains, rivers and streams. Published many years ago, she is only now starting to submit fiction again… buckle up, buttercup.
By
Kimberly I. Moore
It was pitch black. The energy was palatable. Soft chanting rose and ebbed, rose and ebbed. It was the type of darkness that your eyes never get used to. They attempt to adjust but it’s too dark, too black. The air smelled of incense and salt. A chill slipped through the chamber, making some of the chanters falter for a moment.
In the darkness, hooded figures in black formed a circle. They continued to chant. Their voices were melodic and insistent. Rising and falling, rising and falling.
Suddenly: a light. It shone down from the ceiling, it’s bright white unnatural light stark against the darkness. It did little more than light up the center of attention.
In the middle of the room, directly under the spotlight, was a woman. She crouched on the ground, her head bowed. The light shown on her hairless head. She was naked, her body giving a bit of her age away. She wasn’t yet old, but not too young either. Yet there was something wrong with her.
The woman raised her head, her body staying in a crouched position. Her face told a story of pain. There were bags under her eyes, and her skin was so pale as to almost be translucent. Her head had been shaved, but it didn’t have any growth coming out. Her brown eyes were trapped in hollows, but were still bright and alive.
She looked at the hooded figures, seemed to dismiss them and looked directly in front of her. There was a thick white line circling her. It was at least 5 feet across and did not break in any places. Past them were the chanters, and behind them large pillars of cold stone raising up to the ceiling. The floor she crouched on was concrete and she wondered for a moment what kind of building this was, with hard cold floors and hard cold walls. What good could come of a place like this? This building held no love, nor light, nor help from pain.
The woman sighed and stood up. She felt fear trying to work it’s way into her mind, and she attempted to shove it away. This was what she had to do. It was this or let the cancer consume her.
Her weary body straightened up. She winced, there was pain there, insidious and foreign. The chanting because louder, and she knew this was it. It had begun. Of course, hadn’t it begun years ago? A slight smiled touched her face. Then the noise started, and all hell broke loose.
Beyond the salt circle the chanting had reached a fever pitch. The chanters were no longer quiet, they were yelling, and something was yelling back. The woman saw the energy building around her. It was in the form of a violent wind. The chanters had to back up, all of them, against the buildings walls. They were almost invisible in the darkness now, but she could hear them still trying to chant.
Fear took hold. She was, she had to admit, terrified. For some reason the wind did not go through the salt circle. She was standing in a vortex. She watched, scared – detached though from the damage of the storm. Through her fear a voice was clear in her mind. It was her own voice, and it was telling her to do what must be done. Just do it and get it over with. If it was the end of her, so be it. Better than the slow death she was living.
The woman stepped forward, and with her foot she kicked the salt line and broke it.
Salt flew away into the storm, and then salt came back at her… and the storm came with it.
They rushed into the opening, going for the woman. They had been summoned and now they would do what they came for. They grabbed her, all the hundreds of ghosts that had been rallying outside the salt circle. They grabbed her, lifted her up and even shook her – greedy to eat the bad cells that her body had made.
The woman held strong to her mind. It was not easy. The lives of a hundred or more ghosts went through her mind and she lived each one. She knew them from birth to death, and tears streamed down her cheeks with overwhelming happiness and sadness, of joy and crushing pain. She lost children, gained grandchildren, lived though national disasters and died in the arms of a lover. It was overwhelming, but she held on to who she was like a pit bull with a bone. Her teeth were clenched in symbolic holding of her sanity.
And then it was over. The wind – ghosts, departed as suddenly as they had come. She fell to the ground and lay there, her body covered in sweat. Some of the chanters were still there. They watched her expectantly.
The lady rose to her feet. It was different now, wasn’t it? She rose up like a queen. As they rushed to give her a robe, they saw that she was not the same woman who had been there before. She was healthy. The disease that had been eating her alive was gone now, the ghosts had taken it away – perhaps as a thank you for sharing their lives.
She was disease free, yes, but also stronger than that. When she looked them in the eyes, they backed away slightly. She was not one to be taken lightly. The lady smiled. She smiled so big that it hurt her mouth. Yes, she was cured.
She walked out of the hospital a short time later and stopped outside the doors. When she had come in she had been broken and on the way out. Now here she was, ready to take life on, on her terms. It felt so good and freeing that a single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.
Kimberly I. Moore has been writing off and on since she was 10 yrs old. It all started with a cat in a magic roller skate and has become a desire to share dark fiction with the world. She has lived many places, but mainly resides in your darkest dreams and nightmares. Her and her 14 year old daughter like to frequent the mountains, rivers and streams. Published many years ago, she is only now starting to submit fiction again… buckle up, buttercup.
