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Back Black Ambrosia Save as PDF
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

“A monster is what she was, a monster. The stolen-car report didn’t connect from Pennsylvania to New Mexico until spring. And by that time . . .

“Well, by that time, Angelina was warped beyond recognition. But I knew her.

“I knew her.”

35

35

I made a fine home for myself in the cellar. I rearranged things under the stairs and in the dead of night I brought scraps of wood and things in to make a private space, a close, comfort­able, personal place. I built a place where I could escape from the worries of light, of discovery—where the gleaming ivory flesh of my face would not attract attention as I slept in the shadows. I built a box.

My wardrobe improved as I scavenged here and there—I found great pleasure in roaming the halls of the homes I infiltrated. I enjoyed the closets, the cellars, and the children of the occupants, rearranging the furnishings a little bit until they were more to my liking, resting and enjoying a book, sometimes, in the den, after breakfasting.

None was so fascinating to me, however, as the family that lived upstairs. I dared not harm them, they were too close, too precious. My nightly visits to them became routine. I enjoyed the woman with a touch of perverse jealousy. She was so beautiful, so warm and complete, and she enjoyed an active and satisfying life with her mate in the sunshine. I enjoyed toying with her, and sometimes with him, learning about men and women, learning about what made them run. Particularly intriguing to me were their sexual responses, for this is what drives humans to reproduce.

I would sit by the side of the girl child and smooth her hair back from her gently rounded forehead and give her nice dreams as I watched her breathe, watched the flickering of her eyes under the thin lids. In my mind, I gave her the name of Diana, Moon Goddess, goddess of the hunt, of all that is sacred.

The boy I called Daniel, for he seemed fearless to me. Always he was on his guard, sleeping lightly, his consciousness sinking only when I played the music for him. I examined Daniel, as I did all the occupants in the houses I visited—except Diana, of course. Diana was purity inviolate. Daniel, I examined every night, touching, probing, watching his reactions, his responses. The music changed automatically, anticipating the necessities of his dreams, keeping his consciousness in a deep trance.

I enjoyed this music nightly as I toyed with his flesh, and his sleeping smiles and soft moans of pleasure were counterpointed melody to my ears. Such symphonies we created together! I learned to play Daniel’s body like a musical instrument, and through his unconsciousness, we grew very close. I knew that he knew me; I had invaded his dreams and he knew me.