Someone Mailed Me A Box Of VHS Tapes And I Think They Explain Why My Wife Is Missing (Part 3)

Warning: this story is disturbing.
Andrew Malone

Don’t do this to yourself.

That was the first thing I thought when my head stopped spinning and my stomach settled slightly.

Don’t watch anymore. Get these tapes to someone. Get help.

My bloodshot eyes drifted to the box. There was one tape left. One single cassette.

“I can’t,” I whispered, voice trembling, “I can’t do this. I can’t take anymore…oh Patricia, what did they do to you?”

I closed my eyes and heaved a sob, covering my face with my hands. The images from the previous tapes rattled my mind with violent clarity. The shocking terror, the violence, the unflinching brutality.

“Are you still alive?” I breathed. “Please…please be out there somewhere. Let me find you…”

I needed to call the police.

And I would.

I grit my teeth and pulled my hands off my face. The air left my lungs in a long rush of shaken fear. I stared blankly at the vacant TV screen. My mind went numb. I had to know if she was still alive. I had to know right now.

Without thinking, I picked up the last tape and pushed it into the VCR.

I sat back on the couch. Faintly, I detected my heart racing.

The TV filled with color and the recording began.

A dimly lit room. Barren walls and concrete floors. It was the room from the second tape where the whipped man had collected the goat semen. The basement of the church. The walls were lined with cloaked and hooded figures. They stared at what sat in the center of the room.

A cross had been erected. An X-shaped cross. It stood empty and ominous. The only sound was the shuffling of feet. Everyone waited. Everyone watched. The camera panned across the cultists, their hoods pulled low.

Then the screaming began. It was a shrill, high pitched shriek that rocketed out from the speakers. The camera turned and the frame was filled with chaos. Two cultists dragged Patricia toward the cross. She was naked, bruised, and terrified.
She was begging them to stop. Her eyes were like a wild animal’s. Her heels dug into the concrete so hard she left trails of blood in her wake. The cultists holding her did not slow. When they reached the X-shaped cross, they punched her in the stomach. Once, twice, and then she went down gasping.

While the crowd looked on, the two cultists picked up Patricia by the legs and fixed her body to the standing cross.

They placed her so that she was upside down. Her feet stuck up into the air. A hammer was given to the two cultists. Then the nails.

Emotionless, they placed one of them against her ankle. The hammer was raised. Patricia screamed before it was even brought down. The shatter of bone was audible and the splatter of blood visible. It took three blows to secure her first leg to the wooden beam. The hammer was passed over. Three more blows into the second leg and the two cultists stepped back. Patricia hung, howling, supported and held up entirely by the nails now. Blood streamed down her legs and streamed over her torso.

More nails were passed over.

The cultists knelt and grabbed at Patricia’s hands. She was screaming for mercy. No one seemed to be listening.

The hammer was raised and the crack of iron was enough to send Patricia into agonized hysterics. Two blows to secure her right hand. The hammer was passed. Two more blows.

The cultists stood and stepped away, admiring their work. Patricia, completely naked, hung upside down on the wooden X. Blood was everywhere. Her cries were piercing.

Another cultist stepped forward. A woman. In her hands she carried a goblet and a funnel. Her voice grew as she spoke.

“Let us begin this sacred ceremony. Oh you of the Blessed Blood, embrace your calling and become the horn in which Azazel hears. Bring him to us, through your holy womb, so that we may be the catalysts to his holy reign.”

The woman stepped toward Patricia.

“Know the goat in all of its purity. Let its holy seed flow through you and cleanse your flesh of all doubt.”

The woman raised the funnel and then plunged it into Patricia’s vagina. Without pause, she took the goblet and began to slowly empty it down the long plastic throat.

The murky, viscous goat semen drizzled into the funnel and disappeared inside Patricia. The onlookers watched, unflinching. The white ooze continued to drool from the goblet and the funnel continued to drink it down until there was nothing left. Throughout the entire ordeal, Patricia writhed in horror.

With the goblet emptied, the woman stepped back, pulling the funnel with her. A sickening suction sound accompanied the action.

“Let the warmth of the goat consume your womb,” She whispered in reverence, “So that you may be ready, both in mind and body, for our redeemer, Azazel, Lord of the Goat.”

“AMEN!”

The woman retreated to the shadows and her place was taken by another. A man. He raised his voice so that all could hear.

“Bring forth the Seed of our Sin!”

There was a clatter offscreen, a jumble of hushed commotion. Slowly, two robed figures approached the cross. Behind them, they dragged the freshly raped goat. It squirmed on the ground, its hooves scraping the concrete. Its head lolled from side to side and it let out a series of pathetic mewls. As the men pulled it toward Patricia, they left streaks of dark blood in their wake.

They handed the goat’s leash to the speaker.

“The time has come brothers and sisters!” he roared, shaking the rope tied to the goat’s throat, “Her of the Blessed Blood has rejected the Cow! She has rejected the Crow! She has been cleansed of their taint and her body has been purified! Let us fill it now with the flesh of our sin! Let us stuff her with our call to Azazel so that he may take notice and be reborn before us!

Together, through the purity of the goat and the sins of man, let us witness the coming of our savior, The Lord of the Goat!”

“AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

The camera stepped back and zoomed out, taking in the full impact of what was happening on screen.

The two robed cultists who had brought the goat forward now pinned it to the ground. Patricia hung upside down on the cross behind them.

A chainsaw was brought forward.

The speaker took it and bowed his head, crossing himself backwards.

Then he gripped the power cord and brought the motor roaring the life. The chain screamed as he revved the engine. The pinned goat shied away from the the noise, its hooves clacking on the concrete, its eyes rolling painfully in its head.

With the goat held down, the speaker brought the chainsaw down.

The camera zoomed. The screeching blade severed its head and was accompanied by a spray of black fur and splashing blood.

“Quickly now!” The speaker instructed, switching off the chainsaw and discarding it to the side.

The two cultists that had been holding it down now stood and hurried over to Patricia. The speaker bent and scooped up the goat corpse. Rivers of blood ran down his arms.

He carried it over to Patricia.

The two cultists took position on either side of Patricia’s legs and then violently parted the her vagina, exposing her to the gush of blood.

The speaker heaved the corpse up and began draining the blood from its neck into her. It gurgled and flowed, seemingly unending. Currents of red flowed over Patricia’s body as she overflowed and rejected the warm gore.

When the last drop had been emptied from the goat, the speaker dropped it to the floor.

“Our cup runneth over, my friends!” he cried joyously. An enthusiastic cheer followed.

The speaker was then handed a long, curved knife.

Slowly, he knelt and began slicing strips of flesh from the dead goat. With every piece he butchered, he passed it up to the two cultists assisting him.

The camera walked closer.

The cultists took the hunks of dripping meat and began to shove them down into Patricia. It wasn’t long before her bloodied cavity was at capacity. Bits of flesh sprouted from her engorged vagina like crimson tongues.

Wiping his hands, the speaker rose and stepped back to observe the scene. His assistants followed his example.

Patricia wept, screamed, and lost her mind beneath it all. Her naked flesh was almost entirely covered with goat blood and the whites of her eyes stood out like cue balls in a sea of crimson.

The speaker spoke once more, “Her of the Blessed Blood has consumed the holiness of the goat and the sins of man! Join me now, brothers and sisters, in calling to our savior, The Lord of the Goat, so that he may come to us through this sacred womb!”

The walls rattled with the cries of the congregation.

“AZAZEL! AZAZEL! AZAZEL!”

Seconds bled into minutes, the chant of the onlookers, insistent. Patricia closed her eyes, lost in the pain, the horror, the insanity of it all.

“LOOK BROTHERS AND SISTERS! LOOK!”

The crowd hushed and all eyes locked onto the crucified woman.

Slowly, gently, her mouth began to open.

“HE COMES! HE COMES!”

Patricia’s mouth creaked wider and her lips split at the sides, her jaw groaning.

A hoof emerged from her cracking maw. It was huge and it ejected Patricia’s teeth as it came to rest on the concrete floor.

Like a prodding finger, it grew out, extending into a furred leg the color of midnight.

“AZAZEL! AZAZEL! AZAZEL!”

Patricia’s throat surged as something bulged inside. The hooved leg reached further and continued to birth from her ruined face.

But then…it stopped.

The cultists silenced, a hissing gasp escaping as one.

“What is this…?” The speaker whispered, his voice hoarse.

Patricia’s stomach shook as something shuddered inside. The flesh bulged outward and something completely inhuman pressed its face against the skin.

It was the snarling features of a massive goat.

The hoof protruding from Patricia’s mouth began to twitch.

“No! NO! WHAT IS THIS!?” The speaker roared.

Suddenly, in an explosion of gore, Patrica’s stomach erupted. The crowd shrieked and stepped back, blood raining down around them.

Visible through the carnage was the head of a goat, an angry, horrific thing. It squirmed in the wound, growling weakly, its massive teeth snapping the air. The hoof ejecting from Patricia’s mouth clattered against the concrete, a pained, confused pattern.

The speaker whipped his head around to the camera, his hood falling to reveal wide, terrified eyes.

His voice shook, “Pregnant…she’s pregnant!”

He dropped to his knees before the squirming abomination, “The Blessed One is with CHILD!”

The onlookers took a shuddering breath of quivering shock and dropped to their knees, arms raised in pleading disbelief.

Tears ran down the speaker’s cheeks, his teeth clenched, “How could we overlook this! HOW!? Our Lord cannot be birthed from two vessels! His passage will be incomplete! HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN!?”

The cultists prostrated themselves as the goat head twisted miserably from the butchery, its dark eyes blinking dimly. The hoof extending from Patricia’s mouth twitched once, twice and then flopped to the ground where it lay, unmoving.

“NO!” Screamed the speaker. His cry was followed by the disbelief of the congregation, a woeful, mourning wail.

The goat head coughed once from the ruptured womb then vomited a torrent of vile black ooze onto the floor. When the last of the horrendous liquid drained from its lips, the goat lowered its head, shuddered…and died.

The chamber basked in shocked silence.

The only audible sound was the patter of blood as it dripped from Patricia’s motionless corpse.

The speaker covered his face with his hands, “We…have failed.”

The camera zoomed in on Patricia’s face.

Her dead eyes bore into the lens.

The tape cut to black.

Numb. Void. Empty. A sea drained into the abyss. A starless sky emptied of all life.

That is how I felt when the tape ended.

There was no question. She was gone and her departure was more horrific than anything I could have possibly imagined.

And she had been pregnant…my god…

My body begged to scream, to vomit, to release the pent up repulsion and overwhelming horror I felt. My throat felt tight. My chest was heavy. My eyes were dry and burned.

I did not think.

I did not question.

I knew I could not live knowing the torment my beloved wife had suffered. I knew I could not carry these images with me. I knew madness lay mere seconds away.

So before I lost myself in the chaotic tides of insanity, I went into my bedroom.

I went to the closet.

I picked up my shotgun and carried it with me to the bed.

I placed it between my legs and stared down into the barrel.

These tapes…they have killed me as well. TC mark

Elias Witherow

Elias is a prolific author of horror fiction. His books include The Third Parent, The Black Farm, Return to the Black Farm,and The Worst Kind of Monsters.

“Growing up reading the works of King, admiring the art of Geiger, and knowing fiends like Pinhead left me as a pretty jaded horror fan today. It takes a lot to get the breath to hitch in my throat and the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.. My fiance is quite similar, so when he eagerly begged me to let him read me a short story about The Black Farm by Elias Witherow, I knew it had to be good... And I was not dissapointed. Elias has a way of painting a picture that you can feel with all your senses and plays the tunes of terror created when our world meets one much more dark and forces you to keep turning the pages hungry for more.” —C. Houser

Death had other plans for us.

The Farm is in ruins. The Pig has vanished. Everything Nick loves hangs in the balance unless he can find a way to make things right. But at what cost?

Plunge into the darkness with Return To The Black Farm, a new book by prolific horror author, Elias Witherow. Published by Thought Catalog Books.

Read The Book

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