MARK LUKENS: VOODOO ASSASSIN & GIVEAWAY

VOODOO ASSASSIN

A Short Story

by Mark Lukens

Copyright © 2017 by Mark Lukens

“You’re sure you want to do this, child?” the old woman asked Miranda. “You have to be sure. Once you start, there’s no going back.”

          Miranda nodded. “I want them to pay for what they did to my sister.” She tried her best to keep her voice steady, fighting back tears. Miranda’s friend Yolanda had set up this meeting with the old lady who called herself Ms. Brooks, a woman who had experience with the dark arts, a woman who could set up a meeting with Solomon.

          “Oh, he’ll make them pay, all right,” Ms. Brooks said, nodding at the same time. The old woman’s eyes were so light in her dark face, an almost grayish-blue color. She was short and round, and she didn’t seem to be in the best of health.

          “I want all four of them dead,” Miranda said. “But I want them to suffer first. They made my sister suffer.”

          Ms. Brooks nodded like she could be spared the details. “I’ve contacted Solomon. He said he would help you.”

Miranda exhaled a sigh of relief.

“He’s going to want any information you have on these four men, especially any photos you can get.”

          That seemed reasonable.

          Ms. Brooks slid a folded piece of paper across the table at Miranda.

          She took the paper and opened it.

          “That’s his fee,” Ms. Brooks told her.

          It was a hefty fee, but Miranda had expected that. She already had the money together.

          “But that’s only part of his fee,” Ms. Brooks said.

          “Part of it? He wants more than this?”

          “Not more money,” Ms. Brooks said. “There will be one other thing he’ll ask for.”

          “What?”

          “I can’t tell you that. He’ll ask when you two meet.”

          “That’s fine,” Miranda said. “I’ll pay anything he wants.”

          Ms. Brooks slid a business card across the table at Miranda.

          She picked it up. It was a plain white card with the words Solomon’s Art Studio written across the top, and then an address below. “He’s an artist?”

          Ms. Brook’s face clouded a little like some unspoken rule of etiquette had been broken. She smiled; it was just a razor-thin gash in her dark face. “He uses his art in strange ways. You just be there at his studio tomorrow afternoon.”

*

Solomon’s studio was located in the seedier side of town, and Miranda was glad she was taking this meeting in the daytime. A cab dropped her off in front of the five story building. The neighborhood was quiet, like others were hiding away behind their windows, watching her. She had a folder clutched under one arm and a wad of hundred dollar bills inside two thick envelopes stuffed down in her purse.

          The lobby of the building was dark. There was a door down the hall that might have led to an elevator, but no way was she going to trust an elevator in this building. She took the stairs off to the right, the steps hugging a wall of cracked plaster.

          On the third floor, she found Solomon’s studio. She knocked three times as instructed.

          Solomon answered the door. He was almost as tall as the top of the doorframe. His head was shaved smooth, his skin the color of dark chocolate, his teeth bright white and strong. The dark pupils of his eyes never moved—they looked like a shark’s eyes. He was thin, but powerful-looking. He didn’t say a word—he just backed way, allowing Miranda to enter.

          The interior of Solomon’s studio was vast, a true New York artist’s loft. Overhead lights strung from the rafters lit up large canvases and half-sculpted pieces. The space was dedicated mostly to his art, with an entire wall taken up with full portraits of people drawn either in dark pencil or pen and ink—she couldn’t tell the medium used from this distance. Each portrait was spaced equally away from the others, and the entire collection almost looked like one complete art piece itself.

          Solomon gestured towards his “living area” which consisted of a set of living room furniture not too far away from a rudimentary kitchen built along an exterior brick wall. A long curtain closed off what Miranda assumed was his bedroom and bathroom.

          “I brought all the information I could find on these men,” Miranda said as she sat down on the couch, laying the folder on the large coffee table in front of her.

          Solomon sat across from her, staring at her the whole time with his coal-black eyes.

          Miranda opened the folder, pulling out a photo with trembling hands. “This man is Nick Mariano, but he’s called Nix. He’s the leader of this little group.”

          She slid the photo to Solomon. He picked it up and studied it for a moment.

          “This next one is Carmine Rizzo.” She slid the photo to Solomon. Carmine was a heavy-set man with glasses and a thick scar running down the left side of his face. “This next one is Tony Pazietta. They call him Paz. And this is his older brother Johnny Rocks.”

          Solomon studied all of the photos for several minutes.

          “They hang out in a bar called the Blue Horizon after it’s closed. It’s right off of Grand Street.” She passed him a business card with the bar’s information on it.

          Solomon said nothing.

          Miranda pulled out the envelopes stuffed with cash and set them on the coffee table. “Here’s the payment Ms. Brooks said you would need.”

          Solomon took the envelopes and peeked inside, not bothering to count it.

          “I came to you because these guys are untouchable, part of a mafia family. The cops have been paid off. Everyone’s scared of them. My sister got involved with Paz, and . . .” She was trying not to cry.

          Solomon just nodded slowly, his eyes back on her again.

          “Are you going to be able to do this?” Miranda asked. “I mean, if you’ve changed your mind because they’re involved with the family . . .”

          Solomon leaned back in his chair. “I can do this.”

          “Thank you,” Miranda said.

          They were quiet for a moment. As the unsettling silence weighed on her, Miranda glanced around at the loft. “You’ve got some beautiful pieces in here.” She looked back at Solomon. “I don’t understand how you use your art to do . . . to do what you’re going to do.”

          Solomon just stared at her. “I will need one other payment from you.”

          Miranda braced herself for Solomon’s request.

          He told her what he wanted.

          After a moment, she swallowed hard and agreed. She would give anything to make these men pay for what they did to her sister.

*

At two twenty a.m. Solomon entered the Blue Horizon Bar. The place was closed. The only people in the bar were the bartender and the four men seated at a table across the room. Their table was littered with booze bottles and glasses. There was a haze hanging over them from cigarette and cigar smoke. The floors of the bar still needed to be swept and cleaned, tables needed to be cleared. No music played and the lights were low.

          Solomon walked to the bar which took up one side of the room. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie with a wide-brimmed hat covering his bald head. He carried his battered leather artist’s portfolio by the wood handle.

          “Sorry, buddy,” Sal the bartender said as he wiped down the bar. “We’re closed.”

          Solomon took a stool and carefully laid his portfolio down on the next stool.

          The four men, who seemed to be celebrating something, stopped and watched Solomon.

          Sal glanced at the four men beyond Solomon and shrugged. Then he looked back at Solomon. “Hey, buddy. You hear me? I said we’re closed.”

          Solomon still hadn’t met Sal’s eyes or looked at the four men seated at the table twenty feet behind him. But he could feel all of them watching him. “I’m an artist,” he said in his deep voice with just a hint of a Haitian accent. He laid a hand lovingly on top of his portfolio. “I’ve got some drawings inside here.”

          Sal nodded impatiently. “That’s nice, pal. But we’re not buying what you’re peddling. Come on, you gotta get outta here.” His eyes flicked to the doorway that led out to the front room, the entrance of the bar off of Grand Street. “How’d you get past Pauly anyway?”

          “Pauly probably fell asleep,” one of the men from the table behind Solomon said. The other three laughed.

          “Look at that hat he’s wearing,” another one of the men said in a slurred voice. “Hey!” he shouted at Solomon. “You steal that hat from an Amish guy?”

          They all roared with laughter.

          “He carjacked their horse and buggy,” another one of them said, and the others laughed even harder.

          Sal looked nervous, fiddling with the dishrag in his hands. “Come on,” he said, wincing at Solomon. “You really need to get outta here.”

          “Don’t be rude, Sal,” one of the men said. “Give the man a drink before you kick his ass out.”

          “Yeah,” another one of them said. “He deserves a drink for getting past Pauly.”

          “Pauly’s a f*ckup,” another said. “Probably taking a shit right now.”

          Sal didn’t bother asking Solomon what he wanted to drink; he grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey and a shot glass, pouring a drink. “Here’s a free one. Drink it down and get going.”

          Solomon picked up the glass of whiskey. The glass looked so small in his large, spidery hand. He studied the amber liquid for a moment, letting the lights from the bar shine through it. He set it back down on the bar gently without taking a sip.

          “You don’t want it?” Sal asked like he was personally offended.

          Solomon didn’t answer Sal. He reached into his portfolio and pulled out several drawings.

          “What are you doing?” Sal groaned.

          The bar was quiet. The four men were watching Solomon, all laughter halted now.

          Sal glanced at the drawings Solomon had laid out on the bar top, and then he leaned in a little closer, really looking at them now. “Hey, these are drawings of all of us. That one . . . it looks just like me.”

          “I’m a very good artist,” Solomon said, picking up the portrait of Sal. In the drawing, Sal stood there, wearing the same clothes he wore now.

          “This is . . .” Sal started. “This is strange.” He looked towards the doorway that led out to the front room again. There was a bumping sound coming from in there. “Pauly!”

          No answer from Pauly, but the bumping sound was louder now.

          Sal looked back at Solomon. “You do something to Pauly?”

          Solomon still had the drawing of Sal in his hands. He ripped the paper in half right at Sal’s waist. At exactly the same time Sal’s body was ripped in half at the waist like a laser beam had just bisected him. His eyes bulged in shock as the top half of his body slid off from his bottom half, dropping down to the floor behind the bar in a shower of blood, strings of intestines and guts following. Sal’s legs stood on their own for one and a half seconds, the blood spilling out of the waist like an overfilled coffee cup, and then they collapsed to the floor.

          “Holy f*ck!” one of the men yelled—Solomon wasn’t sure which one. They were all on their feet, their chairs crashing backwards down onto the floor, drawing their guns.

          Solomon had the other four drawings of the men stacked together in his hands, already beginning to fold them over backwards. He turned around on his stool and watched all four men bend over backwards at the same time, all of them howling in pain. Two of them dropped their guns as their hands trembled from the pain.

          “That’s right,” Solomon said as he kept the drawings bent back just enough to keep the tension on the men, but not enough to snap their spines just yet. “All of you throw your guns away.”

          Paz and Jonny Rocks still held on to their weapons.

          Solomon applied just a little more pressure to the four drawings bent over backwards in his hands.

          Carmine screamed.

          “I can bend them all the way back,” Solomon warned. “Snap your bodies in half like a bundle of sticks.”

          “Do what he says!” Nix screamed at Paz and Johnny, staring at them from his backbend, his arms dangling, his eyes bulging, his face turning red.

          Paz struggled to stand back up, but he couldn’t fight the force.

          Carmine howled in pain, tears streaming out of his eyes. “Stop! Please, stop!”

          Solomon applied just a little more pressure to the papers.

          Johnny Rocks threw his gun blindly. It bounced off of one of Carmine’s tree-trunk legs and then skittered across the wood floor.

          “What do you want?” Paz screamed.

          “I just want some answers to a few questions,” Solomon said in a conversational voice. “You give me truthful answers, and I walk away. I’ll let all of you live.”

          “Do it, Paz!” Nix screamed—a command from an officer. “Throw your gun away!”

          Paz finally relented. He threw his gun across the room; it landed near his brother’s gun.

          Solomon eased up on the papers, letting them flatten out again.

          The men stood up, breathing hard.

          Carmine’s fleshy face was shiny with tears. “There’s pain shooting up and down my legs,” he cried to the others as he stumbled back down onto his chair. “He did something to my back.”

          “Nix,” Solomon said, turning his attention to the oldest man in the group as he still held the stack of drawings. “Kick all of the guns on the floor over there in that corner. And then I want you to collect any other guns you have on you. Don’t lie to me. Don’t try to keep one.”

          Nix did as ordered, then turned to his guys. “Come on. Get your guns out.”

          Carmine moaned in pain, his body trembling as he tried to reach for his gun strapped to his ankle. “I don’t think I can reach it,” he whined.

          Nix sighed and squatted down next to Carmine, tearing his snub-nosed .38 out of the ankle holster for him. He tossed the weapon over into the corner with the other ones.

          Johnny reluctantly handed his gun to Nix.

          Paz was hesitating. He looked towards the lobby where that bumping sound was louder now. “Where’s Pauly? What did you do to him? Tie him up?”

          “Pauly can’t answer you,” Solomon said. “He doesn’t have a mouth anymore.”

          “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

          Carmine was breathing hard, his skin deathly pale. “The pain . . . something’s really wrong with my back. I think he broke it.”

          “You’re dead,” Paz said to Solomon as Nix waited for his gun. “You hear me? You know who you’re f*cking with?”

          The bumping noise from the front room was even louder, and then Pauly stumbled into the bar.

          “Oh God,” Johnny said as he watched Pauly stumble around blindly. “What did you do to him?”

          “Where’s his hands?” Nix asked.

          Solomon had the drawing of Pauly out of his portfolio now. “I erased his hands from the drawing. And his eyes and mouth.”

          Pauly had his arms out, but his suitcoat sleeves ended in stubs where his hands used to be. His hands hadn’t been cut off, they were just gone, just stumps with flesh over them. There was smooth skin on his face where his eyes and mouth used to be. His voice still worked, and a cry was trapped in his throat, his Adam’s apple working furiously.

          “I could draw his hands again,” Solomon said. “Or I could draw . . . other things there.”

          Pauly turned towards the sound of the men’s voices, his handless arms outstretched. He was moaning louder now, screeching from his throat.

          “The guns,” Solomon said. He now had a pair of scissors in his hand he’d taken out of his portfolio while the four men stared at Pauly.

          Nix looked at Paz in panic. “Your f*cking gun, Paz!”

          “He’s going to do that to all of us,” Paz warned.

          Solomon cut off a large corner of Pauly’s drawing with the pair of scissors. Pauly’s left leg just above the knee was separated cleanly from his body, blood streaming out and puddling on the floor. Pauly lost his balance as soon as his leg was gone, his other foot slipping in the blood. He fell down, trying to grab at his severed leg with hands that he didn’t have anymore, the stumps of his wrists bumping against his amputated leg. Even though he didn’t have a mouth anymore, he screamed and screamed, the tendons standing out like cords on the sides of his neck, his featureless face turning bright red.

          “Your gun,” Solomon said to Paz.

          Paz looked pale, like he was going to get sick. He looked back at Solomon. “You’re dead.”

          Solomon folded Carmine’s drawing all the way back. The heavy man flopped backwards in his chair, falling out of it as he bent completely backwards on the floor, the back of his head slamming into his feet. His bones snapped, a gunshot-echo bouncing off the walls.

          Carmine never even had a chance to scream, he was dead in an instant, his eyes staring blankly, blood dripping out of his mouth and pouring out from under his shirt where his flesh had been ripped open from the violent torqueing of his body.

          Johnny turned and puked.

          Paz handed his gun over to Nix who threw it into the corner.

          “Okay,” Nix said, turning back to Solomon once he’d thrown the gun away. He had his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “The guns are gone.”

          “Good,” Solomon said. “There was a woman a few weeks ago.” He looked right at Paz. “I believe you knew her well.”

          Paz’s face went white with fear. “She was going to snitch on us.”

          “The four of you raped her.”

          “I didn’t do anything,” Nix said. “I swear. It was the three of them.”

          “F*ck you,” Johnny said. “You helped kill her.”

          Solomon had the drawing of Nix in his hands, caressing it gently.

          “What are you doing?” Nix asked Solomon with his hands still up. “Wait a minute. You said you just wanted to talk. We’re talking here.”

          Solomon crumpled up the drawing, and Nix crumpled up at the same time, muscles ripping, bones shattering, skin splitting. Blood splashed the two brothers as they tried to back away from the crumpled mess on the floor that used to be Nix.

          Johnny tried to puke again, but all he could do was dry heave.

          Paz looked at his brother with wild eyes, his body tense, like he was ready to either run for the door or try to get to Solomon.

          Solomon laid the last two drawings down on the bar right beside each other.

          “We’re sorry,” Johnny cried. “We can make this right. I swear. We can . . . we could pay you.”

          Solomon picked up the shot of whisky Sal had poured for him earlier. He tipped the glass over, spilling the liquid across both drawings.

          Johnny and Paz looked down at their bodies—their skin and clothes were suddenly wet.

          Solomon had a disposable lighter in his hand now. He lit it.

          “No,” Johnny said. “No, wait a minute . . .”

          Paz started running straight at Solomon.

          Solomon lit the whiskey and the flames whooshed across the two drawings.

          Paz and Johnny caught fire. They collapsed down onto the floor, rolling around as they screamed, trying to put the fire out . . .  but they couldn’t.

          Solomon stood up as the fire on the bar top grew, the flames beginning to consume the stools now. The whole place was going to be an inferno in minutes. He walked away as the two brothers screamed and writhed on the floor.

*

Five days later Miranda showed up at Solomon’s studio as instructed to pay the rest of her fee. This meeting was earlier in the day than the last one had been, an hour of the day when the light would be the best.

          Solomon let her inside his loft and then closed and locked the door. She followed him to an area where he had an easel set up.

          “Thank you,” Miranda said as she walked behind Solomon. She’d read an article about the fire at the Blue Horizon Bar. The police were calling it a terrible accident. “Thank you for what you did.”

          “Stand right there,” Solomon told her.

          Miranda stood where he’d pointed and waited.

          Solomon was in front of his easel a moment later, a sharpened pencil in his hand.

It only took a few hours for Solomon to draw Miranda’s likeness in pencil on the paper. When he was done, she asked if she could see it. She walked over and studied the drawing for a long moment—it looked exactly like her.

          He untacked the drawing from the easel and took it over to his wall of drawings. He removed the drawing of a man and crumpled it up. Then he tacked the drawing of Miranda in the empty space, completing the wall of drawings again.

          Miranda knew that the man who’d posed for that drawing had just died the moment Solomon had crumpled up the paper; it had been part of that man’s payment. And she knew that one day—she didn’t know when—he would crumple up her drawing to make room for the next one, and that would complete her fee.

* **

GIVEAWAY

GIVEAWAY CLOSED: WINNERS SELECTED!!!! WOO HOO!!! Another year, and another great start to HALLOWEENPALOOZA V!!! What's better than a great read from the fantastic Mark Lukens followed up by a giveaway? NOTHING!!!! And what a giveaway!  FIVE ECOPIES OF DEVIL’S ISLAND are up for grabs!!!
If you’re new to HALLOWEENPALOOZA, here’s how you enter: Click on back using the below link to return to the FB Event Page, find today’s post featuring Mark Lukens, then comment, “I WANT TO WIN!” in that post!!! Good luck!!!

DEVIL’S ISLAND

DEVIL’S ISLAND... an abandoned island in the Caribbean Sea with a dark and bloody past ... an island with a terrible secret ...

Nick Gorman, billionaire movie producer, assembles a team of ghost hunters and scientists to investigate the Thornhill Manor on Devil's Island - the most haunted place in the world that no one's ever heard of. He's there to find proof of ghosts, evidence of an afterlife ... but he's also there to uncover the secret that is hidden on the island ... to possess it.

The ghost hunting team is led by Shane Edwards who lost his TV show in a scandal and now is a disgrace in the ghost hunting world; this is his chance to redeem himself and revive his career. But as soon as he steps foot on Devil's Island, he realizes that the fears from the Cranston House, a house he and his friend entered on a dare when they were twelve years old, fears he thought he had overcome, are all coming back. And everyone on the team is facing their darkest fears, the island somehow bringing them to life.

As Nick gets closer to unearthing the secret on the island, Shane begins to wonder if any of them will survive their two night stay on Devil's Island.

AUTHOR BIO

Mark Lukens has been writing since the second grade when his teacher called his parents in Mark Lukens has been writing since the second grade when his teacher called his parents in for a conference because she was a little concerned about a ghost story he’d written. Since then he’s had several stories published and four screenplays optioned by producers in Hollywood—and one script is in development to be a film. He’s the author of many bestselling books including: Ancient Enemy, Darkwind: Ancient Enemy 2, Devil’s Island, Sightings, The Exorcist’s Apprentice, and more. He’s a proud member of the Horror Writers Association.

You can find him on Facebook at Mark Lukens Books, and on Twitter @marklukensbooks.

Feel free to follow his blog for sales, articles, updates, and more. And check out his latest blog post listing the 50 best horror short stories of all time at www.marklukensbooks.wordpress.com

His author page is: http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Lukens/e/B00G8GYUUG

His latest book has just come out, a collection of short stories called RAZORBLADE DREAMS. You can find it here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B076B7W252