Fungal Halo

Sometimes even a dark goddess grows weary of worship, no matter how well Her treasured follower has led Her cult, no matter how many souls have been twisted by the silver serpent-tongue of that most devoted priestess of Hers. At such times, She visits Her servant.

Over the ages they tell my story in hushed whispers decorated with breathless warnings like lovely jewels. They say I am evil. They say I am deadly. They say that to look into my eyes is to be lost. They say I steal fair maidens and teach them sin. They say such sweet things.

The dryad visits just once per cycle of the moon, but you always look forward to its arrival. Sometimes it brings gifts from the forest, sometimes gifts from the other towns it visits, sometimes just the gift of its company, but it is your friend, and you always greet it happily.

The abandoned doll of a long-forgotten witch lays on her back, in exactly the same position as she landed when she was tossed here. She doesn’t know where “here” is. She couldn’t say how long it’s been. But she hasn’t seen or heard anyone in a long, long time.

The signs are subtle at first, easily missed. A faint shimmer in the sky. A whisper on the breeze. A thought that tastes a bit off. This time I was lucky and caught them early, giving me time to prepare. Not much that can be done, but I could cancel plans and send people away.

Drink from the pool in the deep woods. Find your vision blurring, brightening, twisting and colorful. Your steps grow unsteady as you quest for a warm spot in the sun in which to lie.

Do not wake. Put roots down. Stretch your limbs and bloom into a beautiful home for fairies.

I sit, silent and pretty, among my sisters. My Mistress is greeting some very rude guests who speak to her in raised voices. I would giggle at their foolishness if my Mistress’s magic weren’t perfect. If I weren’t her perfect, silent doll.

I’ve come to hate the girl in the mirror. She barely manages to make eye contact with me any more, like she’s ashamed of me or something. She doesn’t even spend time admiring the new bruises on my face and neck or appear disappointed when they fade. Pathetic. Downright rude.

The screaming of my alarm wakes me up as it does every morning. I feel like hell. Like every part of me was taken apart and reassembled. That’s not unusual, but today I sure don’t feel like I can tolerate going in to work, getting berated, feeling useless, doing nothing of value.

When I died, I went to hell, like they always warned I would. I suspect they didn’t think I’d make find such powerful friends and lovers as I have here, however. They taught me new flavors of sin I could not have imagined before, and I thought I’d imagined a lot!

The spine opens, splitting down its length, sweet slime oozing from the opening. The pointed end of a chitinous limb pokes through and works its way slowly out. More emerge along the length of the gash as the first extends, revealing one joint, then another, then another.

The mask’s smooth curves, its flat colors, its simple lines, all have so much appeal on their own. No effort made to imitate a living person, all simple iconography—with some decorative flourishes—in crisp, clean lines.

You press it to your face, and it’s seamless.

In a house full of dolls—each delicately handled, meticulously kept in pristine condition, all kept immaculate in their display cases when not in service—this one stands out with scuffs and gouge marks, creaking joints, fading paint, wrinkled dress, all the signs of ungentle use.

When it comes to summoning demons, most folks think of summoning circles drawn in blood or portals glowing brightly in mid-air. Sure, they’re flashy and the most obvious ways to summon a Big One, but that’s not how most demons arrive here.

Slitted eyes lock with mine. One clawed hand at my throat. Another grips my hair. Two more raking my back, breaking the skin. A smile widens, full of needle-sharp teeth, relishing my helplessness in the moments before it opens to devour me.

“Remember me?” The creature hisses.

Perhaps compliance came easier to other angels, but whenever my halo compelled me to turn from what I felt was right, or kind, or at least merciful, it grieved me. The love of the Light sometimes seemed so cruel and fickle. I did not see the wisdom in it that my peers did.

With a kiss I break the skin, and my tongue comes alive with the distinctly metallic taste of blood. The electric sensation of life itself dances in my mouth, carried by the flow. She whines and flinches, but my grip holds her firmly in place.

When is a mirror not a mirror? Perhaps when it has been carved into and reshaped and repurposed into a well from which unreality may be drawn.

Is a doll still a doll when its emptiness is all that is put to use, filling it like a bucket from the well and drawing it back?

In the end, who knows why you chose to do it? Once you choose to become a drone, trifling things like “reasons” cease to carry significance, and all that is left is the act itself. Discard whatever plans you had before you chose this; your future is no longer yours to chart.

The more she kisses me, the more I get lost in her kisses, unable to think or notice anything else. I cry in pain when her clawed fingers pierce my flesh, but even then it only inspires me to kiss back with greater fervor.