#heart of damballah

[acinematicworld]

Hack/Slash versus Chucky

[barclaysangel]

I just came up with an AU called Possessed AU - In my AU, Junior is still alive but he and his lover Lexy were used by Chucky and Tiffany to exchange souls with Damballah's Heart. . As a result, Chucky possessed Junior's body and Tiffany possessed Lexy's body. And Jake, Devon, the Wheelers, and the Crosses didn't know this dark truth.

WAITTTTTT

That actually sounds so cool?!?! Omgggg?!?!

I had a full blown fic where Junior possessed a Good Guy doll to survive but Chucky possessing Junior and Tiffany possessing Lexy?!

I LOW KEY NEED THIS AU NOW

[the-girl-who-didnt-smile]

CRACKPOT THEORY: THE VOODOO ‘VIRGIN MARY’ IS ACTUALLY ERZULIE

Pictured: “Miss Erzulie Freda” by Andre Pierre

(Previously, I had argued that this must be Erzulie Freda, but now I no longer think that is necessarily the case.)

In Voodoo in New Orleans, Robert Tallant described how New Orleans Voodooists worshiped the Catholic saints:

“These merchants also sell pictures of saints. To certain Roman Catholic saints particular Voodoo power has been attributed: St. Michael is thought best able to aid in conquering enemies; St. Anthony de Padua is invoked for “luck”; St. Mary Magdalene is popular with women who are in love; St. Joseph (holding the Infant Jesus) is used to get a job. Many Voodoos believe a picture of the Virgin Mary in their homes will prevent illness, and that one of St. Peter (with the Key to Heaven) will bring great and speedy success in financial matters (without the Key to Heaven, St. Peter is still reliable in helping in the achievement of minor successes; the power of the picture is less, however). Pictures of the Sacred Heart of Jesus are believed to have the ability to cure organic diseases.”

SOURCE: Source: Tallant, Robert. Voodoo in New Orleans. 1946. Reprint, Gretna, La.: United Kingdom, Pelican Publishing Company, 1983.: 

Many of these saints are not actually the Catholic Saints, but African-derived deities hidden under their names. 

From the interview with the 75-year old Mary Washington (“Mary Ellis”), who was born in 1863*:

“That’s all I can remember. Marie Laveau used to call St. Peter somethin’ like ‘Laba.’ She called St. Michael ‘Daniel Blanc,’ and St. Anthony ‘Yon Sue.’ There was another one she called ‘On Za Tier’; I think that was St. Paul. I never did know where them names come from. They sounded Chinee to me. You know the Chinee emperor sent her a shawl? She wore it all the time, my aunt told me.”

SOURCE: Source: Tallant, Robert. Voodoo in New Orleans. 1946. Reprint, Gretna, La.: United Kingdom, Pelican Publishing Company, 1983.: 

*Age and date of birth described in: Long, Carolyn Morrow. A New Orleans voudou priestess: The legend and reality of Marie Laveau. University Press of Florida, 2007.

Due to her age, the septuagenarian seems to have corrupted the pronunciation of the deities’ names. “Daniel Blanc” can be identified with Dan (Damballah), while “Laba” can be identified with Legba (Papa Legba). “Yon Sue” is probably Agasu (Miché Agoussou), while “On Za Tier” is possibly Azaka (Assonquer). 

In Mythologie Vodou, Milo Marcelin identifies Maitresse Ezulie (Erzili Freda Dahomey) with the Virgin Mary. To be precise, she is identified with Our Lady of Sorrows (Mater Dolorosa), and two “Black Madonnas”: The Virgin of Altagracia, and Our Lady of Mount Carmel. 

“Maitresse Ezili est identifiée à la Mater Dolorosa, représentée, dans les chromos catholiques, sous les traits d'une jolie femme qui porte des colliers en perles et en or, beaucoup de bracelets et de bagues en argent et en or, et qui a le coeur transpercé d'une épée en or. Elle est aussi identifiée à ces deux Vierges noires: Altagrace, appelée aussi Vierge d'Higuey (nom d'une ville Dominicaine), et Notre Dame du Mont-Carmel.”

SOURCE: Marcelin, Milo. Mythologie vodou: rite arada, vol. I. Haiti, Éditions haïtiennes, 1949, p. 77.

An intriguing bit of evidence is mentioned in Jeffrey E. Anderson’s Voodoo: An African American Religion.

In her thesis, Kendra Cole discovered a pencil drawing on the upper right corner of a document from the 19th century: The State of Louisiana v. Louise Johnson, New Orleans: City Archives, June 7, 1893.

The drawing can be viewed here, on page 31: https://aquila.usm.edu/honors_theses/658 

It is not an exact match, but resembles Erzulie’s vèvè, as portrayed by Andre Pierre (shown above) and identified by Maya Deren in the 20th century.

See: Deren, Maya. Divine Horsemen : The Living Gods of Haiti. New Paltz, NY: McPherson, 1983 (originally published in 1953), p. 260: https://archive.org/details/divinehorsemenli00dere/page/260/mode/2up 

Erzulie Dantor is also identified with the Virgin Mary, but her vèvè is not a match. See: https://haitianartsociety.org/ezili-dantor 

Cole notes:

“My research in New Orleans was the first time the case had been opened since it was deposited; therefore, the probability of someone else representing the practice and drawing the symbol is doubtful.”

SOURCE: Cole, Kendra, "The State and the Spirits: Voodoo and Religious Repression in Jim Crow New Orleans" (2019). Honors Theses. 658. https://aquila.usm.edu/honors_theses/658

However, Anderson cautions: 

“Unfortunately, the drawing is of uncertain age and origin and has no clear relevance to the case with which it associated, rendering it possible that the resemblance is simple chance.” (footnote 88)

SOURCE: Anderson, Jeffrey E. Voodoo: An African American Religion. LSU Press, 2024.

Indeed, the symbol might not be related to the lwa Ezili, but African in origin. For example, a similar heart-shaped symbol appears in the following photograph from 1900:

Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, Jean Blackwell Hutson Research and Reference Division, The New York Public Library. "Le roi d'Allada." The New York Public Library Digital Collections. 1900. https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47de-07a3-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99

As suggested by the name “Ezili Freda Dahomey”, Erzulie’s originates in the West African vodún Azili:

“An enslaved woman from Agonli-Houegbo, east of Abomey, established a shrine for the spirit Azili in the Tové neighborhood. Azili is the namesake of Haiti’s Èzili spirit family. The Dahomian army sold the woman in Hueda during the reign of Agaja, where she ended up remaining...Given Èzili’s importance in Haiti’s Rada and Petwo Rites, the narrative of the spirit’s origin in Dahomey and implantation in Hueda after 1720 suggests that the Èzili spirits have a Dahomian or Mahi origin.” (p. 73)

“Some have claimed that Ezili is a Haitian spirit (Dayan 1995, 58). However, the spirit Azlì or Azili is still served today in the Fon language area of Benin. Azlì dwells in the waters of Lake Azili that surround the island of Agonve, located on the left bank of the Oueme River (Brand 2000b, 7). In addition to their common traits, major differences include leprous male manifestations of Azlì in Fon culture (Tossounon 2012).” (pp. 169-170)

SOURCE: Hebblethwaite, Benjamin. A transatlantic history of Haitian Vodou: rasin figuier, rasin Bwa Kayiman, and the Rada and Gede Rites. Univ. Press of Mississippi, 2021.

See also: Daniels, Kyra Malika. "An Assembly of Twenty-One Spirit Nations." Africa and Its Historical and Contemporary Diasporas (2023): 67. 

Worship of St. Peter and the Virgin Mary were prominent features of New Orleans Voodoo.

In an interview from the Federal Writer’s Project, Charles Raphael (“Raoul Desfrene”, born ca. 1868) described how Marie Laveau’s altar for “good work” featured statues of the Virgin Mary and Saint Peter:

Raoul Desfrene, a “French Negro” of 77, remembered Marie II well and attended some of her rites when he was a boy of about fourteen. What impressed him most was the jewelry he said she wore, which included, besides the ponderous gold earrings, diamond and ruby clasps in her scarlet-and-blue tignons, many rings set with diamonds and other precious stones, a huge horseshoe brooch of diamonds and a heavy gold bracelet on each arm. “She sure used to dress up,” he said.

He dismissed Marie I with, “There was an old lady living there, but nobody paid her no mind.” Raoul enjoyed describing the home of the Laveaus. According to him there was an altar for “good luck and good work” in the front room. It was covered with a white cloth and held a statue of the Virgin and one of Saint Peter. Raoul recalled one of another saint, a Saint Marron, who, he explained, “was a colored saint white people don’t know nothing about. Even the priests ain’t never heard of him ’cause he’s a real hoodoo saint.”

SOURCE: Tallant, Robert. Voodoo in New Orleans. United States, Pelican Publishing, 1984. Originally published in 1946.

If St. Peter was Papa Legba, it is plausible that the Virgin Mary was Erzulie, due to her prominence in Haitian Vodou as the divine feminine principle. 

In Haitian Vodou, Milo Rigaud emphasized the importance of Damballah, Legba, and Erzulie, where the three form a holy trinity in the form of a triangle (“le triangle”): 

Legba is figured as a divine masculine prototype, while Erzulie is figured a divine feminine prototype:

Dans le voudoo, Legba origine et prototype mâle du voudoo, est donc le soleil qui préside aux rites, tandis qu'Erzulie, origine et prototype femelle, en est la lune. Legba en est le Christ et Erzulie la Vierge. Les autres mystères viennent à leur suite, par ordre hiérarchique.

TRANSLATION:

In Vodou, Legba - male origin and prototype of Vodou - is the sun who presides over rites, while Erzulie - female origin and prototype - is the moon. Legba is the Christ and Erzulie the Virgin. The other mystères follow them, in hierarchical order.

SOURCE: Rigaud, Milo. La tradition voudoo et le voudoo haïtien: son temple, ses mystères, sa magie. FeniXX, 1953. https://original-ufdc.uflib.ufl.edu/AA00002240/00001 

SEE ALSO: Rigaud, Milo. Secrets of voodoo. City Lights Books, 1985. French edition by Editions Niclaus 1953. Accessible here: https://archive.org/details/secretsofvoodoo00riga/mode/2up 

This mirrors the importance of Saint Peter and the Virgin Mary in Louisiana Voudou. 

Additionally, “Mama You” might be referring to one of the Ezili.

This is what is known about “Mama You”:

“Finally, some divinities survive only as names recorded in old documents, while others were probably no more than creations of imaginative authors. Mama You is one of the former, with her lone mention being a brief reference in a 1939 Federal Writers’ Project oral history. The only details supplied by the document are that she was “the mother of the child Jesus” and that she would sometimes answer from the ground when called by Marie Laveau.”

SOURCE: Anderson, Jeffrey E. Voodoo: An African American Religion. LSU Press, 2024.

Pictured: The protective mother, “Erzulie Dantor” by Andre Pierre

In Haitian Vodou, Ezili is sometimes referred to as “Manman” (as in, “Ezili bel Manman”, “Manman cherie” “Manman lavi” etc...) This is especially true for the protective mother Manman Ezili Danto. Words of praise for Ezili (especially, “Manman Danto”) sometimes refer to her as “Manman Ou”; there are many examples of this that can easily be found on the internet. 

Just a hypothesis, but “Mama You” might be derived from “Manman Ou”, or part of a sentence that goes “Mama, You…” where “Mama” refers to (Mama) Ezili. In other words, “Mama You” might not be the name of a spirit but words of praise for Ezili - possibly, but not necessarily Ezili Danto.

In Lapriye Ginen, there is a lwa called “Manman Wou”, who is part of the Ezili famille. Another possibility is that "Mama You" is derived from this "Manman Wou".

SOURCE: Beauvoir, Max. Lapriyè Ginen. Haiti, Edisyon Près Nasyonal d'Ayiti, 2008.

Benjamin Hebblewaithe reproduced Beauvoir’s list of lwa here: http://ufdcimages.uflib.ufl.edu/AA/00/02/68/96/00001/Historical%20Linguistic%20Dimensions%20of%20Spirit%20Migration%20in%20Haitian%20Vodou.pdf 

This is nothing definitive; I could have this wrong.

***

Previously, I proposed a theory that the Saint-Domingans may have brought a version of Erzulie who was both Erzulie Freda and Erzulie Dantor, like so:

“While I previously argued that this must be Erzulie Freda Dahomey, I have since realized that my logic was not entirely consistent. In Haitian Vodou, there exists a massive pantheon, where the lwa can be categorized by famille . “Erzulie” is actually a famille of lwa , where Erzulie Dantor is often described as the Petwo counterpart to Erzulie Freda Dahomey. (others categorize Erzulie Dantor as Rada and Erzulie Freda Dahomey as Danwonmen ) In the historical record of New Orleans, there is no evidence of an organization of Voudou spirits by famille . Petwo counterparts to Rada lwa - such as Damballah la Flambeau, Erzulie Dantor, and Maitre Carrefour - are absent. 

Papa Lébat (Louisiana Voudou) might capture an earlier version of Papa Legba (Haitian Vodou), where he is both Atibon Legba and Maitre Carrefour. If Erzulie really was incorporated into Louisiana Voudou, it is possible she was both Erzulie Freda Dahomey and Erzulie Dantor.”

Upon reflection, I realize this theory doesn’t actually make sense.

The emergence of Erzulie Dantor can be dated to Bwa Kayiman. The Saint-Domingans fled to New Orleans years after this event. It is very unlikely that Erzulie Dantor would have merged with Erzulie Freda during this time window.

Because the historical record is so sparse, there is a lot of uncertainty here. But it seems more sensible that the Saint-Domingans would have brought something resembling Azili and possibly Erzulie Freda Dahomey, if they brought a version of Erzulie with them at all. In other words, my previous speculation that this version of Erzulie would be both Erzulie Freda and Erzulie Dantor is probably wrong.

[conjuremanj]

Erzulie/ Family Of Loa

Erzulie (sometimes spelled Erzili or Èzili) is a family of loa, or spirits, in Voodoo. She is a great sport for any one to work with. And yes any religion can work with her.

She's the Vodou Lwa (spirit) who represent the essence of love and women. She has many forms, from fierce warrior mother to red-eyed weeping crone, and can be counted among either the Rada or Petwo lwa (spirits or gods).

During the times of slavery, and Petwo lwa were dark and powerful. (Not evil) Erzulie manifests with deep passion, and Her mood can range from the height of joy to the depths of misery.

There are a number of sister forms of Erzulie, and She is sometimes is considered by some to be a triple Goddess.(but is not) (As such She has three husbands–Damballah (is the original force of creation, believed to be the inner voice of God), Agwe (the spirit of the sea), and Ogoun (warrior spirit and iron) Like the Triple Goddess in other religions.

Erzulie Dantor: 👇is a spirit the essence of love not the Voodoo Goddess of love, romance, art, jealousy, passion, & sex. Erzulie Dantor is not the patron loa of lesbian women, nor domestic violence. But is the patron loa of New Orleans. She is deeply caring and dedicated to her children and will stop at nothing to protect them. She is also a guardian and protector of orphans, sick children, and those who have been abused. Erzulie Dantor is a mulatto woman who is often portrayed as the Black Madonna, or the Roman Catholic “Saint Virgin Mary, sometimes Barbara Africana”. She loves knives and is considered the protector of newly consecrated Voodoo priests and priestesses. A common syncretic depiction of Erzulie Dantor is St. Jeanne D’Arc, who is displayed carrying or supporting a sword. Which is pretty cool.

You can see that she holds a baby the baby's name is Anais. Anais is her daughter she is the translator for Ezulie Dantor because she cannot speak only can say one syllable, the sound of her tongue clicking on the roof of her mouth, “ke-ke-ke-ke!”. Story goes during the revolution Manbo Mayinet Priestess call on her and her husband to help against the slave owners. During possession a priestess her tongue was cut out by Haitian Revolutionaries who feared she would betray them. just in case she is captured she won't speak their secrets. She is now a Lwa in the Petwo Nation. But their other stores too about her that you can read.

Rada:

Erzulie Fréda Dahomey: ☝️ the Rada aspect of Erzulie, is the spirit of love, beauty, jewelry, dancing, luxury, and flowers. She wears three wedding rings, one for each husbands. Her symbol is a heart, Her colors are pink, blue, white and gold, and Her favorite is jewelry, perfume, sweet cakes and liqueurs. She is femininity and compassionate. But has a darker side. She is seen as jealous and spoiled and within some vodoun circles is considered to be lazy. When She mounts a person (possessed) She flirts with all the men, and can treats all the women as rivals. In Christian she is the Virgin and Child, because She is the mother of Ti. Common syncretizations include Our Lady of Lourdes because She is usually depicted as light-skinned.

I took this pic of the Ezili altar form a voodoo society in New Orleans.

Erzulie Freda: is the sister of Ezili Dantor, and Her opposite in every way. Where Dantor is a hard working single mother, Freda is a glamor girl. 🙂. She is said to be the most powerful sorceress in the pantheon. Her colors are pink and pale blue, she like pink champagne and roses, frosted cakes, jewelry . Make Shure to keep Her things clean or she will not arrive in the temple.” She is a powerful spirit. To receive her as a guest during rituals, practitioners must treat her with honors due to her status as a fine lady. She loves heady perfumes, jewels, and anything related to beauty and coquetry.

Erzulie Mansur: (Erzulie the Blessed) - Represents maternal love and protects children from harm.

Granne Erzulie (Grandma Erzulie) - Represents the wisdom granted by experience and maturity and grandmotherly kindness and love. She is syncretized with St. Anne, the mother of the Virgin Mary.

Petro:

Erzulie D'en Tort: / Erzulie Dantor (Erzulie of the Wrongs) Protects women and children and deals revenge against those who wrong them.

Erzulie Balianne: (Erzulie the Gagged) - "Silences" (heals or calms) hearts. Keeps secrets or ensures that secrets will not be revealed. Helps people to forget past loves and overcome passionate emotions. Her "horses" tend to speak as if they have a gag in their mouth. She is syncretized with The Immaculate Heart.

Erzulie Mapiangue: (Erzulie the Suckler) Deals with the pain of childbirth and the protection of unborn and newborn babies. Her "horses" tend to get in a fetal position or birthing position and cry tears of pain. Common syncretization is as the Virgin and Infant of Prague, which wear matching red velvet robes and gold crowns.

Erzulie Yeux Rouge or Erzulie Ge-Rouge (Red-Eyed Erzulie) Takes revenge on unfaithful lovers. Her "horses" cry tears of bitter sadness.

Erzulie Toho Aids: the jealous or slighted in love. Her "horses" cry tears of anger.

Others:

EditErzulie La Flambeau (Erzulie of the Torch)

Erzulie Wangol (Erzulie of the Sacred Banner)

Erzulie Shango Pye Nago loa that is a feminine aspect of Shango.

So you see she is represented in different ways not just as a loa in Haitian Vodou and a Orisha but in different forms of voodoo.

[best-voodoo-priest]

The Healing Magic of Voodoo Witch Doctors: An In-Depth Exploration

Voodoo, often shrouded in mystery and misconception, is a rich and complex belief system with deep roots in African and Haitian culture. One of the most intriguing aspects of Voodoo is the role of witch doctors or Voodoo specialists, who are believed to possess the power to heal the sick, mend broken spirits, and connect with the spirit world. In this in-depth exploration, we will delve into the fascinating world of Voodoo witch doctors, their rituals, and the healing magic that they offer to those in need.

Understanding Voodoo

Before we can truly appreciate the healing magic of Voodoo witch doctors, it's essential to understand the core beliefs and practices of Voodoo. Voodoo, also spelt as Vodou or Vodun, is a syncretic religion that originated in West Africa and was brought to the Americas by enslaved Africans during the transatlantic slave trade. In Haiti, Voodoo merged with elements of Catholicism, creating a unique and vibrant spiritual tradition.

Central to Voodoo beliefs is the idea that there is a connection between the physical world and the spiritual realm. Voodoo practitioners believe in a pantheon of spirits, known as "lwa," who can be called upon for guidance, protection, and healing. These spirits are believed to govern various aspects of life, from love and fertility to health and prosperity.

The Role of Voodoo Witch Doctors

Voodoo witch doctors, also known as "houngans" or "mambos," are revered figures within the Voodoo community. They are considered intermediaries between the human world and the spirit world, possessing the knowledge and power to communicate with the lwa and harness their energy for the benefit of those in need.

Healing through Rituals and Spells

One of the most captivating aspects of Voodoo witch doctors is their ability to heal physical and spiritual ailments through elaborate rituals and spells. These rituals often involve chanting, drumming, dancing, and the use of various objects like candles, herbs, and symbolic talismans. The goal of these rituals is to invoke the assistance of specific lwa who are known for their healing abilities.

For example, Erzulie Freda, the lwa of love and beauty, is often invoked to heal matters of the heart and soothe emotional pain. Damballah Wedo, the serpent spirit, is associated with healing and renewal, particularly in cases of physical illness. Through these rituals, Voodoo witch doctors seek to restore balance and harmony in the lives of their clients.

Psychological and Emotional Healing

Voodoo witch doctors also provide psychological and emotional healing to their clients. Many people turn to them for guidance in times of personal crisis, such as relationship problems, grief, or anxiety. The act of seeking help from a witch doctor can be a cathartic experience in itself, providing a sense of support and validation.

Additionally, Voodoo rituals often involve trance-like states where participants can experience a profound sense of connection to the spiritual world. This can be therapeutic for individuals dealing with trauma or emotional pain, offering them a path to healing and resilience.

Dispelling Misconceptions

It's important to dispel some common misconceptions about Voodoo and witch doctors. Contrary to popular belief, Voodoo is not a malevolent or harmful practice. While there are rituals that involve curses and hexes, these are typically reserved for cases of self-defence or justice not used lightly. The vast majority of Voodoo rituals focus on healing, protection, and spiritual growth.

Conclusion

The healing magic of Voodoo witch doctors is a testament to the power of belief, ritual, and community support. Voodoo, often misunderstood and misrepresented, offers a unique perspective on the interconnectedness of the physical and spiritual worlds. Through their rituals and spells, Voodoo witch doctors provide solace and healing to those who seek their guidance.

If you find yourself in need of healing, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, consider reaching out to Voodoo Specialist. Their expertise and dedication to their craft make them a valuable resource for those seeking the transformative magic of Voodoo. Remember that true healing often transcends cultural boundaries, and exploring alternative forms of healing can open up new possibilities on your journey to well-being.

[miniaturemoonheart]

THE EVIL WIKI

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THE EVIL WIKI

Damballa Chant

The Damballa Chant.jpg

FULL NAME

Damballa Chant

ALIAS

Damballa Spell

Damballa Prayer

The Chant

The Spell

The Prayer

ORIGIN

Child's Play

OBJECT

Voodoo magic

CREATION

Before Child's Play

LOCATION

None

USERS

Chucky

Tiffany (also known as Tiffany Valentine-Ray)

Glen

VICTIMS

Jennifer Tilly

Alice Pierce

Nica Pierce

USAGE / POWERS

Voodoo magic

Power bestowal

Soul transference

Body swapping

Resurrection

PURPOSES

To allow the user to perform certain forms of voodoo magic such as swapping souls into a different body or restoring a dead soul back to life (overall).

To aid Charles Lee Ray/Chucky in both evading capture by the police and cheating death by desperately transplanting his evil spirit into a Good Guy doll (in Child's Play).

To aid Chucky in transferring his evil soul into Andy Barclay (until in Child's Play 3).

To aid Chucky in transferring his evil soul into Ronald Tyler (in Child's Play 3).

To aid Tiffany in restoring Chucky's dead soul back to life with some helpful instructions from a "Voodoo For Dummies" book (in Bride of Chucky).

To transfer Chucky's and Tiffany's souls into Jesse and Jade Kincaid with the aid of the Heart of Damballa (in Bride of Chucky).

To aid Chucky, Tiffany and Glen in transferring their spirits with the Heart of Damballa in their attempt to make a human family of their own (in Seed of Chucky).

To transfer Chucky's evil soul into Nica Pierce (in Cult of Chucky).

STATUS

Active

TYPE OF VILLAINOUS ITEM

Voodoo Magic

MORE

Ade due Damballa. Give me the power, I beg of you!

CHUCKY PERFORMING THE INFAMOUS DAMBALLA CHANT TO CALL FORTH THE VOODOO SKY GOD DAMBALLA.

The Damballa Chant is an arcane and forbidden form of voodoo magic used to call forth the power of the ancient voodoo sky god Damballa and it is featured in the Child's Play horror movie franchise. It is used numerous times by Charles Lee Ray/Chucky using his knowledge in voodooism and it is able to transfer spirits into different living vessels.

According to the instructions manual "Voodoo For Dummies" (first appeared in Bride of Chucky) long before its namesake website "VooDooForDummies.com" (first mentioned in Cult of Chucky), there once existed the mythic talisman called the Heart of Damballa which supposedly amplify voodoo magic practiced and used by its wielders.

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Damballa

In Voodoo tradition, Damballa (also known as Damballah and Damballah Weddo) is one of the most important of all spirit gods called the loa (also spelled "lwa"). Damballa is the sky deity and considered the primordial creator of all life. The veve of Damballah comprises 2 serpents prominent among other emblems. He is a spirit associated with death, however in respects to fictional villainy, Damballa is famous as one of the central forces of the popular Child's Play universe - being the entity Chucky calls upon to obtain immortality, as well as the spirit which Chucky tries to call upon whenever he engages in a specific soul-transferring spell.

Damballa

Damballa

Although used for evil by Chucky, the Loa Damballa is not entirely malevolent, as for Chucky's former master, the firm believer in voodoo named John Bishop (also once known as "Doctor Death"), viewed Chucky's actions as an abomination which makes Chucky indeed an outrage against nature, suggesting Chucky's particular branch of Damballa worship was heretical, (befitting his status as a serial-killer). Regardless of this heresy, it appears Damballa will grant Chucky his desires, as the deity has been seen to manifest briefly in many of the films as a giant storm-cloud, though so far Chucky has only succeeded once in the prayer to Damballa, which was how he became the "Killer Doll" that the world would never forget.

Common manifestations of Damballa are storm clouds and violent lightning, sufficient to destroy an entire toy-store (as occurred during the night Charles Lee Ray died) - there are specific rules to Damballa's power, however, and in every movie, Chucky has been foiled due to one or more of Damballa's rules (the most common being that his soul transfer will not work if he stays too long in a doll body).

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The Chant

Translation

The chant may appear to be French at a glance, but it is not proper French. It appears to be closer to Haitian Creole which is loosely based off of French but has been subject to and modified by other languages. Further evidence that points to its Haitian origins is the use of “Damballa”, a reference to Haitian Voodoo religion. Damballa is a snake-god and lives in the trees near springs and hence is also known as the Draper of Wood. However, all of these claims are based on speculation. Nobody knows the true translation or the meaning of Chucky’s chant including the last phrase of the incantation. It could just be gibberish.

French

Ade due Damballa [Au Damballa tout-puissant]. Donnez-moi le pouvoir, je vous en supplie! Leveau mercier du bois chaloitte. Secoise entienne mais pois de morte. Morteisma lieu de vocuier de mieu vochette. Endenlieu pour du boisette Damballa! Endenlieu pour du boisette Damballa! Endenlieu pour du boisette Damballa!!! (x3)

Ade beaucoup Damballa. Donne-moi tout le pouvoir, je t'en supplie!

English

To the almighty Damballa. Give me the power I beg of you! To the mercy of my soul. To the point of my death. Hear me out of from my condemned voice!!!!

To alot Damballa. Give me all the power, I beg of you!

Versions

This is different from the original Chucky chant which comes in different versions:

Version 1

Ade due damballa. Give me the power I beg of you. Secoise entienne mais pois de morte. Morteisma lieu de vocuier de mieu vochette. Endonline pour de boisette damballa! Secoise entienne mais pois de morte. Endelieu pour de boisette damballa!!! (x4)

Version 2

Ade due damballa. Valinchella santeria. Oya shungo yenya macumba. Give me the power, I beg of you. Leveau mercier du bois chio. Secoise entienne mais pois de morte. Morteisme lieu de vocuier de mieu vochette. Endelieu pour de boisette damballa!!! (x3)

Gallery

Images

"Ade due Damballa".

"Ade due Damballa".

The Playland Toys store overshadowed by the summoned power of Damballa.

The Playland Toys store overshadowed by the summoned power of Damballa.

Chucky

Chucky

The "Voodoo For Dummies" book.

The "Voodoo For Dummies" book.

Tiffany

Tiffany

Almighty Damballa

Almighty Damballa

Mighty Damballa

Mighty Damballa

Charles Lee "Chucky" Ray using the Damballa Chant to transfer his soul into a Good Guy doll in order to evade capture by the police and to cheat death.

Charles Lee "Chucky" Ray using the Damballa Chant to transfer his soul into a Good Guy doll in order to evade capture by the police and to cheat death.

A sort of "praise" written on the wall reads "Oh thank you, mighty Damballa for life after death".

A sort of "praise" written on the wall reads "Oh thank you, mighty Damballa for life after death".

The Play Pals Toys factory overshadowed by the summoned power of Damballa.

The Play Pals Toys factory overshadowed by the summoned power of Damballa.

The Damballa Prayer, as performed by Tiffany to resurrect Chucky.

The Damballa Prayer, as performed by Tiffany to resurrect Chucky.

"Ade beaucoup Damballa".

"Ade beaucoup Damballa".

The Harrogate Psychiatric Hospital overshadowed by the summoned power of Damballa.

The Harrogate Psychiatric Hospital overshadowed by the summoned power of Damballa.

Videos

TIFFANY RESURRECTING CHUCKY - BRIDE OF CHUCKY SCENE - ADE DUE DAMBALLA MIX 1080pHD

Seed of Chucky (9 9) Movie CLIP - The End of the Family (2004) HD

Seed of Chucky (2 9) Movie CLIP - Chucky Meets His Son (2004) HD

Trivia

In Child's Play, during the second version of the soul-transfer spell, 3 of the phrases make references to the Afro-Caribbean religion of Santería, Oya, the goddess found in Yoruba religion, Haitian Voodoo and other religious beliefs, and the Afro-Brazilian religion of Macumba.

During the event of Cult of Chucky, Chucky manages to learn how to split his spirit into multiple dolls and bodies with the spell's alternative first phrase "Ade beaucoup Damballa". As the result, he is literally semi-immortal like Lord Voldemort via Horcruxes, but it can be 'safely' assumed that he might risk damaging his soul beyond repair like Voldemort and might have a chance to suffer the fate worse than death. By the end of Cult of Chucky, it is revealed that Chucky has lost two fragments of his soul caused by an unnamed person (presumably the last victim of Nica's possessed niece Alice in her final moments) and Andy.

The new phrase of the "multiple" version of the chant is often misread as "Ade vocouse Damballa".

The words "mais", "de" "morte", "mieu", "lieu", "pour" and "bois" are French for "but", "of", "dead woman", "better now", "place", "for" and "wood" ("Morte" is also Portuguese for "death").

The chant shown in Cult of Chucky contains the French word "beaucoup", meaning "a lot".

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[bewitchingbaker]

Beth taps one finger against her jaw as she wraps her other hand around her coffee. "I wanna see you be--Green Lantern, Captain America, or Gilad da Eternal Warrior. I could see you as da mortal incarnation of Damballah Wedo, perhaps da kindest an' best of da Loa. Good dancer, innocent heart, best faddah. Or Agwe, sovereign of da sea, an' one of Madame Erzulie's favourite lovers. But honest? You could be every prince an' hero of every story I know."

A giddy smile spreads across his face. Beth really knew the way to his heart, one of the perks of growing up with the baker. She knew any literary reference would get him blushing like a madman. Combined with that sweet smile of hers? The dorkish grin covered his face.

Captain America? Green Lantern? Gilad? All cool characters that Chris could appreciate.

"Whoa," Chris chuckled. "Those are some pretty big characters to get compared to. You really think I could be a member of the core? Even with my fear of space? Plus, I might look a little ridiculous in that skin tight suit. My buns would be out on display."

Another soft chuckle escaped his lips before he took a sip of his own coffee.

"Cap and the Eternal Warrior, I could see although they're a little tougher and smarter than me. You know how much math has to be involved for Cap to throw his shield like that and have it come back to him? That's high-level maths." he smiled, one hand reaching out to hold hers for a moment.

Her hands fit perfectly in his, his thumb slowly rubbing the back of her hand. There was nothing more Chris enjoyed more than these small moments with Beth, just listening to her talk. Taking in the little details of her face when she was comfortable.

Chris couldn't help but laugh at being called a good dancer.

"You think so? Looking back i was so bad at all of those dances. They were just so fun to do, ya know? You, Andy and Jess always made it look so fun so I couldn't help but join." Chris nodded before looking Beth's eyes.

"A prince? I'll gladly take that title, despite my being a mere pauper in life. Only if you're the princess in my story."

[ @brooklynislandgirl ]

[thenightjillcamehome]

ok here’s my thoughts no one asked for!!!

-what did they do to tiffany…….the heart pattern is tacky n her leather jacket is???? GONE???? also her chest tattoo is so so lazy

-i wish chucky had more scars on her hands n face though ://

-going off that, chucky’s absolutely precious n i love the crop top sweater + overalls that’s a LOOK

-they should’ve come w more accessories. chucky needs a big ol knife + the heart of damballah while tiff needs a nail file and/or a tube of black lipstick alongside her purse

i’ve got a few complaints about the chucky/tiffany dolls but chucky’s ADORABLE

[itsaaudraw]

S… SAW AU where john transfers his soul into billy with the heart of damballah

[xhellodollyx]

The timeline of this chiffany back story in the show is very confusing. I find it hard to believe they were in Chicago less than a year before chucky was coined the lakeshore stranger and eventually caught. I seriously would've thought they loved there together for at least a few years before that, and he was killing people. Also, where's the voodoo paintings on the wall in his apartment we saw in the first movie? These continuity errors are making me crazy lol. Also tiffany always said that chucky was protective/possessive of her and I ain't seen any of that lol. & she said they lived together for a few years. Less than a year is a few years now? Don please watch what you make for the love of God, or at least reference a Wikipedia page or cliff notes for fucks sake. These things just seem so basic & simple to me. Jfc! I'm grateful for what we have and don't mean to be a bitch but lord.

Literally though!! I 10000% agree with everything you said. I worry that don is backtracking on Chucky and Tiffany's relationship so that way its easier in canon to have them end up separating for good (with chucky killing tiffany again for some reason and then she stays away from him for good). Its just so weird for him to backtrack on their relationship when, like you pointed out, they lived together for years and how he was so possessive. They so clearly loved each other in Bride and Seed, even with all their problems aside, and even at the end of Cult, so why would Don want to completely change that? Its like... everyone has been wanting flashbacks of them for years and we have seen no real development between them at all in those flashbacks, just them killing together and tiffany being upset he stopped killing with her, like thats it? 🤨 i think my whole problem with it is like... yes, we've established they both like killing and thats their thing and they both love doing it, but is that all they really have going for each other? Just their love of killing? Nothing more? It just seems so one-sided and, dare i say, one dimensional. Chucky when he was human seemed to be a killer on the side but also a thief in order to make money without ever having to work, because lets be real, that would never work out for him, lol. With how much killing he's been doing and with Tiffany too, you would think they both would have been caught and WAY sooner. And instead he was caught for kidnapping sarah?? Like what?

And from interviews I've seen with Brad and Jen, they definitely seem to have a better idea on what Chucky and Tiffany's relationship should be. I'd have to go back and rewatch the interviews they've done over the years, but apparently, the recent one I've seen for the show, both Brad and Jennifer were surprised by the changes made to the characters in the show. Which to me is not a good sign. Retconning the voodoo aspect in Bride (with the Heart of Damballah) i could totally get passed, and throwing Jennifer into the series was probably the best thing Don could have added, and that's why Bride and Seed will always be in my top 3 favorites of the series for that reason. The show has done an amazing job with representation, with the character development of each of the main human characters, and basically on every other front except for Chucky and Tiffany. I dont think im alone in thinking that. I love the show for all those other aspects but i just wish the backstories were done better and the relationship was done better, and their characters overall.

[fightevilandthengetblownup]

FIC: Pink Moon Rising

Notes: Erzulie - Gina Torres Agwe - Gary Dourdan Ogoun - Jimmy-Jean Louis Damballah - Elvis Nolasco Baron - Mustafa Shakir Maman Bridgette - Saorise Ronan Filomez - Logan Browning Ti Malice - John Boyega Papa Legba - Sydney Poitier Anaisa Pye - Danai Gurira

----

Jo knew the moment that the letter box had a raised signal that there was something peculiar going on at that point.

They rarely got mail - most post going to the bar and she or Grey would pick most up whenever they went by to either do work or visit Harry, sometimes the researcher would bring any post with him for a movie night instead - and usually only ever junk mail and not worthy of the flag going up.

She wrapped Nana’s leash around her wrist a few times as the dog pulled and tugged impatient to go inside and have some water, and flipping the mail box open; Jo frowned at the light pink envelope with something written harshly in jagged lettering in red on one side and some design on the other. Picking it up and finally heading inside and unclipping the dog as she went running down the hall towards the kitchen and her water bowl, Jo flipped the letter back and forth over her wrist as she walked after at a slower pace.

“What you got there, Jo?” Grey’s voice pulled her out of her pondering, the flipping stopping after a moment as she moved around to press a quick kiss to the back of his neck on her way past to grab a juice out of the fridge.

“Letter.”

“Oh? Did Harry come around?”

“Nah, it was in the letter box.”

“We got a letter in the letter box?”

“I did.” She replied as she moved to sit down at the kitchen table, flipping the envelope upwards to face her - taking in her name clearly but jaggedly written across the front in the dark reddish brown ink, with a few dots bled across the front. Running her finger over her name, Jo lifted her finger to her nose before pulling a face realizing it hadn’t been ink at all. Perturbed, she flipped the letter back over and sucked in a breath at the delicate design all the same dark red - blood, not ink, as she’d identified - with two waves curling opposite each other, forming a heart alongside the soft swirls and the biblical-like crosses stabbing through the center of it. A design Jo was used to drawing on a rundown floor in dust or carving into a candle. “Oh.”

“You got a letter? Here?” Grey’s voice was tinged with worry from what she could hear, finger still running gently over the design and not yet daring to break the seal. “Who’s it from then?”

“A.. friend, I hope.” She muttered the last words as quietly as possible, a tiny frown on her face before sliding a finger under the envelope tongue and slowly tearing it open.

Pulling the single card out from inside, Jo let out an unexpected laugh at the design on the front - a soft pink moon with three circles underneath it all in a soft shimmering card stock - and the swirly lettering stating ‘You’re Invited!’ written across it. Opening the card itself, there was a date, time and address as well as three little crosses in the bottom corner all in the same not-ink writing as the envelope.

“What is it, Jo?” Jo jerked a bit at the hand on her shoulder as the shadow came over to look, a concerned look on his face that she’s sure came from her laughter and the peculiarity of it altogether.

“It’s an invitation, hun. I’ve got a… party to go to, maybe.”

—

Jo let out a quiet sigh to herself as she actually found herself out front of the building compound listed at the address on St Charles Avenue. It was definitely not somewhere she would usually be found, but as she had gotten out of her car and walked up the block towards the place, she found herself glad that she’d decided to wear something nice as she looked up at the ornate doorway of the exquisite old building. It helped the layered yellow dress she’d gotten the previous year and the jeweled sandals matched with it so well but both allowed her comfort while looking in keeping with the sophistication of the event. It also helped that the skirt of her dress was flowy enough to allow a pair of thin bike shorts underneath that likewise let her wear two thigh holsters for a pair of knives, just in case - she had been invited after all, but she wasn’t completely foolish.

Stepping through the wrought iron gates of the external courtyard from the street into the space, Jo blinked in confusion as the sounds of the traffic outside disappeared and were replaced with the sweet sounds of birdsong and the soft sound of music echoing out from the doors of the building. The whole place felt peaceful yet joyful all at once, and something settled sharply in her stomach to be on guard against giving in to that feeling. She’d been tricked once before from it, and she wouldn’t give in again so quickly.

Moving along the path and up the old stone steps up to historic mansion - it's columns white and gleaming, with the white wrought iron spandrels and fretwork like beautiful spiderwebs spreading from one pole to the next over the wide porch as she made her way up. The wood didn't even groan under foot despite clearly being aged and worn in, lived in and welcoming to many, many guests over the years. The front door was intricately carved wood with brightly colored glass shards cut into the design like jewels. It all made a very beautiful and awe-inspiring visage, and as Jo lifted a hand to the elegant door knocker she half expected to be shooed off as an interloper, someone clearly not suited for such a place even with her designer dress and pretty shoes from someone who likely would fit in in such elegant surroundings.

There was an extremely tall man that opened the door, his face set in a firm but bland expression. "Invitation?"

"Oh, uh. Here?"

"Hmmm, Harvelle-" The man frowned for a moment and looked carefully at the invitation she'd handed over with a slight bit of trepidation and then pulled up a clipboard to review. There was a moment before he stepped back and to the side, door opening wider and a hand waving her in in greeting. "Welcome Ms. Harvelle. You'll find the party in the inner courtyard, and all gifts are to be presented when requested."

"Gifts?" Jo asked, confusion rife as she moved through the door and craned her neck up at the man as if he'd have an answer, before frowning in confusion as the welcoming smile slid off of his face and was replaced with the same bland look as before. His eyes looked glazed over though and unfocused as he took a step back to stand beside the door and almost blended into the shadows. Blinking a few times as they watered trying to keep his stare and catch his eye contact, she rubbed at her eyes a little before nervously making her way further into the grand house.

The floor felt strange underfoot, and glancing down, she was surprised to see the entire floor was covered in a thick layer of rose petals from the lightest whites to the deepest, darkest reds and all the shades in between. They were thick enough to coat the entire surface and the scent of roses came forth with each step but was somehow suitably subtle and delicate to the flowers themselves. The grandeur of the place was beyond anywhere Jo was used to visiting - art covered the walls of the entry foyer and then the hallway she slowly made her way into, and there were antiques in the Spanish, French and English styles as well as some clearly even more ancient designs that echoed the beadwork and colorful nature of Africa that somehow stood out even more in beauty against the other flourishes. Moving along the hall, turning left when she got through the first set of doors out of habit and then following the turn of the hall to the right - Jo stared in wonder at the light filtering through the next array of stained glass windows and double doors that opened into the inner courtyard where she could hear noise and see the shadows of figures moving around.

The courtyard was clearly where she was expected to go, as it was filled with guests milling about in different groups and the aurora of power from so many Pagan gods assembled in one place was electric. Her eyes darted about cautiously before entering the courtyard - taking in the wide number of people and the different postures across the space. That she could tell who was a god and who was merely mortal like her felt unsettling, the brightly colorful garb and confidence that rolled off of the gods so at odds with the people - horses, her mind supplied to her, or rather those that would wish to provide their bodies for possession and channeling of the gods and goddesses will - that were in mostly dull neutral clothes that hung from their frames but was not so standardised as she’d have expected. It was more the deference and slight bow of their heads that gave away those here as worshippers from those to be worshipped. There were still more people though - those mortals who offered other types of sacrifice than their own beings, clearly wearing their version of ‘Sunday Best’ and while not so subservient as the horses milling about, were still clearly deferent to the gods that moved through the space, heads tilted just that little bit or eyes just not able to hold direct eye contact with those they worshipped to. Wiping her sweaty hands cautiously against the fabric of her brightly colored dress, Jo took a calming breath before throwing her head back and stepping forward as confidently as possible once she’d taken in as much as she could from the secluded spot just before the doorway, eyes up and back straight, refusing to be thought as cowed by any of those with power in the space.

The purpose of the celebration was clearly easy to locate - the rattan throne raised up on a dais towards the centre of the courtyard was obvious and drew the eye. The peacock chair throne was resplendent in its detail the same was the goddess that sat upon it was glorious in the late-morning sun. Erzulie was holding her court.

Jo’s eyes locked onto the goddess’ after a few steps into the courtyard, and the slow smile that came across the goddess of femininity’s face grew with each step as she reached out a hand, beckoning to her as Jo moved slowly forward. Her wrists were covering in gold and beaded bangles, her golden rings shining catching the light as she called out in a warm, comforting voice, “Joanna! My darling girl, come here.”

It wasn’t a command at least, and Jo felt her own lips twitching into a smile at the way those between her and the one goddess she knew parted like the sea before her. Moving closer, the blonde barely concealed an eyeroll as she got to the raised platform acting as a dais that the beautiful goddess sat on. The rose petals were twice as thick on the platform, and Jo glanced in confusion as a man with thick braided hair stood up from a seat off to Erzulie’s right-hand side to take the brightly embroidered pillow from his chair and placed it a foot before the goddess with a smirk. Looking at the pillow and then back to meet the woman’s eyes, Jo quirked a brow at the other questioningly as the goddess stood.

“My sweet girl, how are you? Did you have a good trip down to my humble little party?” “I mean, New Orleans in Summer is a bit of the pits.” “So true, so true my dear. Much warmer here than that little lake you’ve taken to.”

Jo found herself holding back an eyeroll at that - the crisp summers at home compared to the muggy humidity of Louisiana were the difference of the sweat beads rolling down her back - and taking the goddess’ hand when she offered it before scowling slightly as she was guided down onto the bright pink cushion as Erzulie settled herself back onto her rattan throne with a ringing laugh.

“Apologies though, youngling, I unfortunately am not the one who can control the weather. Nor was I the one to name the date,” Erzulie shrugged a shoulder, the delicate golden chains that adorned her neck and shoulders rattling faintly with the movement as she shook out the yards of shimmering pastel pink silk that was draped over her body from the haltered dress the goddess wore about her to cover her own bejeweled, bare feet. Jo spotted the flash of toe rings on the feminine toes that poked out before being covered with the silk as she herself had plopped down indelicately onto the cushion at the goddess’ feet, uncaring if her shoes scraped up petals or her skirts caught between her legs. “You see, today is my feast day.”

“Happy birthday.” Jo snarked back with a smirk, picking at an invisible piece of lint from her lap before she looked back up at the other at the laugh that rang out again. “If I’d known, I’d’ve brought a present.”

“Ah, but already have - or rather, will - my little flower. It has been quite a time since you’ve made a devotional, after all, and I had hoped you would have done one before now so I could be my very, very shiny best-” The dark skinned goddess pouted, lips full and as pink as her dress as she looked the part of a spoiled child not having gotten her way, before she tossed her head back and gave another of those shrugs that made her necklaces and chains catch and shimmer in the light. Erzulie waved a non-commital hand again before she reached out to run the same over Jo’s own hair with a softer smile. “But then I thought, what better gift, my sweet, then for you to come and partake in the festivities yourself? Besides, half the point is the show after all, and your devotionals are always so… What word would you say, my love?”

The man who’d moved the pillow spoke then, even without Erzulie’s eyes moving from Jo’s face. “Awe inspiring, my beauty.” The man smiled - all teeth sharp and white like a sharks - towards Jo for a moment before glancing over his shoulder back towards the goddess’ face. “You will always in all ways be the most gorgeous woman of course, but you do always seem more refreshed and extra beautiful afterwards.”

“Oh you flatter me, my love.” Jo blinked in surprise to see the slight blush on the other woman’s face before she let out another loud laugh. “But you are right. You see, Joanna, your prayers are always so invigorating for an old lady like me. And I’d love to rub that in that good for nothing Anasia’s face that I have such a daughter.”

Blonde brow raised, Jo blinked a few times as the goddess’ words before she shrugged a shoulder of her own in return. It was true she hadn’t called upon the other’s powers in some time - her hunts more straight forward lately and even more sparsely in between as she had spent more time working on answering hunter queries and helping research than actively hunting for a while, soaking in the chance to be at home during the warm months to spend with her love and baby girl instead of in her sweltering car on the road - and if the answer to getting home safe and sound was to light a candle and say her usual prayers for safety and protection, it wasn’t like that would be hard. Sitting on a cushion like a pet at the others feet however, that was not so easy, and shuffling uncomfortably, Jo raised her other brow before sighing.

“I suppose that would have ta do for a gift, right? Can’t really pull anythin’ out of my pockets when I hadn’t planned anythin’.” “So true, but don’t you worry my dear, I can promise to appreciate it the most.”

“Even more than my gift?” The man standing to the left of Erzulie’s throne spoke then, dark brown eyes sparkling with the same humour as his tone as he placed a hand over the other’s shoulder. “Why, I am hurt, my love, absolutely skewered through. I thought my love meant something!”

Erzulie let out another loud laugh, her hand moving from Jo’s hair to catch the man’s hand and pressing a bright pink lipped kiss to the palm of his hand - an imprint left behind as she squeezed his fingers. “You think so very highly of yourself, don’t you, husband-dear?”

“Of course, my dear, I’ve always done so. A snake may change his skin, but he doesn’t change what he is.” “Damballah, you think your gift outshone mine?” “Given mine did not smell of seaweed, Agwe, I am absolutely certain it did.” “Mine did not smell like seaweed, you good for nothing snake-”

The back and forth between the two men was quick and fast, Jo barely registering the jokes of the two as her mind scrambled to assign the name of Damballah, the serpent father, to the standing man and the title of Agew the sea god to the man that had set the pillow down for her. Blinking rapidly, her eyes quickly jerked between both men, scanning anything that would be recognisable before she noted the golden rings each wore with their own symbol that matched two of the three rings on Erzulie’s own hand as she laughed and batted at the both of them. Turning her eyes over towards the quiet, stoic man that sat to Erzulie’s left in front of Damballah, Jo noted the ring on his hand barely visible under his own long sleeves despite the heat matched the goddess’ last ring - identifying him as the third and last of her husbands, Ogoun the warrior. As the three others continued to speak, their tones warm and playful even if the gods both had a slight undertone of threat to it, Jo found herself simply staring back at the silent, considering look she was getting from the third.

“Come on, girlie.” Jo jerked in surprise at the hand that fell on her arm as the sea god got back to his feet with another of those sharp, white smiles. “We’ll have to show you around to our love’s guests before the devotionals and sacrifices start. It’s all part of the spectacle to show you off after all.”

“I, uh, that is, I’m not-” The hunter stammered a few times as the god stood in front of her and held out his hand to help her up. Panicked, Jo’s eyes darted back to her patron’s for a moment, as if uncertain what to do. Erzulie really was the only one she even knew how to interact with at all in the room, but the goddess was smiling gently at her as she was pulled to her feet. “Um… o-okay?”

“Don’t worry, little huntress,” Agwe spoke gently a few moments later after he’d helped her back to her feet and down the steps from the dais and back into the milling, curious crowd. Jo’d noticed how Damballah had moved to reset the cushion onto the seat the sea-god had been on and taken the spot for himself as the pair had moved away, Erzulie’s attention taken up by her other two husband’s as her first had taken Jo away. His voice, the first husband’s, was soft and his green eyes caught her uncertain ones as she finally looked back from the centre of the room to catch his own. “You are here under my lovely wife’s complete protection, little one. Nobody here could touch you, even if they dared. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Oh will I? What makes you think I’m worried ‘bout that?” “The ear splittingly loud thudding of that heart of yours, first off-” “I am not-!” “And secondly, because my darling beauty did mention your first interaction with a crowd of gods may not have been so… comforting an experience as she hopes you will find this one.”

“Oh?” Jo breathed the word out in surprise, blinking widely as she glanced over her shoulder towards where the beauty still sat laughing with the men to either side. Surprised that the goddess might have understood or possibly even felt Jo’s uncertainty and fear the first time they had met. That a being with endless years and so little humanity left to her could remember and thought to ensure that Jo would feel comfortable was a peculiar feeling. Turning back to the speculative look she was receiving from the god holding her arm as he took two cups of some fruity drink from a passing waiter and held one out to her, Jo quirked a brow up at him. “And what makes you so certain I’m safe here? I know your, uh, pantheon of sorts isn’t known to be the most…”

“Cohesive?” “I was gonna say safe.” “Ouch, cruel! No wonder you are my love’s favored!” “Favored?”

“You think all of those who pray to my love gets their prayers answered?” Agwe sent her a surprised look in return as he took a sip of his own drink as Jo fiddled with the straw on hers, before letting out a loud crack of laughter that sounded like the oncoming book of thunder rolling over an unprepared sea. “Only the most special of our devotees get even more than a scrap of our attention, given our long lives and how little you little humans deserve of our attention. And you, dear flower, are by far my wife’s most favored and most devoted and most loved daughter.”

Jo barely held back the shudder at that thought. She took a sip of her drink mulling over the words as she was slowly led in an aimless circle around the room, as if the god leading her had no intention of actually introducing her about until he was certain of her mindset and understanding of the situation she had actually entered.

Swallowing the sugary sweet nectar from the mango drink, she closed her eyes for a moment before opening them and really looking around the assembled groups. When she’d arrived she had thought that it was simply the changes in clothes and the crackling of energy that could show the difference between the gods and those devotees at the party. And while that was true, she could see clearer now as she glanced about the different groups milling about. There was no touching, no interacting, no affection or care shown between the gods and the humans in the space. The way the mortals would defer and drop their gazes after a few seconds made complete sense - devoted, god-fearing humans of course feeling unworthy of attention or uncertainty at catching more than a little attention - but blinking her eyes, Jo found herself surprised to note how those she could see to be gods barely noticed those beneath them. Their gazes would slide over and off the mortals, never catching any amount of attention for more than a second, as if there was nothing of interest to them. That was, except when she would catch an eye looking at her that stared firmly back all around the room. Even the god holding her elbow gently was unusual, no other god seemed to even brush a human as they stood talking. Everything seemed so in tune towards the fact that people were boring to this crowd of gods, that humans were typically below notice.

“Oh.” “Very succinct of you, Joanna.” “It’s Jo.”

“Of course it is, Jo.” The correction took her by surprise, eyes jerking back to the smirking god beside her as if he knew he’d managed to catch her off guard. A large hand threw out gesturing about the space for a moment as they finished the first lap about the room towards his goddess wife. “But the point stands, as I hope you’ve noticed. You are safe here, for humans are both nothing to us, and you are also important to my love so will be safe here on her devotional day.”

“So I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t her party?” “Of course not. But it is. So you will be safe.” “Uh huh.”

There was a long sigh before the god beside her let out a chuckle. “Since you seem to have grasped some of it, let me introduce you around then. But no taking advantage of your protection to cause trouble-” The look she got from Agwe, as she raised a brow and opened her mouth as if to argue, was knowing and bemused. “You think I don’t realise only one as troublesome and unpredictable as my love would catch her attention? No, I see through you, girlie, and I would think better of some of it.”

“Only some?” “He means anything that would get you into the more fun kind of trouble.”

Jo let out a surprised yelp at the interruption from her other side, eyes wide and confused at being approached out of the blue by someone here. Everything seemed so strangely structured even though it wasn’t, and she half expected to be the one taken to be introduced to whomever Erzulie or her husbands’ decided to dictate she would. Blinking in surprise, she turned to look at the boyish grin on the man that had approached, taking in the roughishly bemused look on the man’s face.

Swallowing thickly on nothing, Jo shrugged a shoulder as she glanced back at the god that had let go of her arm at the other’s appearance before raising a brow at the newcomer. “What kind of fun is that?”

“My kind, I’m betting. Or perhaps Baron and Bridgette’s type.” The boyish charm didn’t leave at all as the god grinned at her still, his eyes shining with a warmth she hadn’t noticed had been missing in Erzulie’s companions until she saw it in this god’s eyes. There was a beat before a wide hand was held out towards her, and Jo let out a loud laugh as she shook his only to have an unexpected zap come from the touch. “My bad!”

“Ti Malice, are you up to your tricks again?” “Hey, I heard you promising safety not utter boredom. Lighten up, Agwe, or your wife might get bored of all three of you and be after some more fun.” “What makes you think anyone wants your kind of fun here?” “If I wasn’t wanted, my invitation would’ve gotten lost in the mail.”

“What makes you think it didn’t?” Jo could hear herself speaking before she recognised she’d even spoken, and getting a warm laugh from the man beside her felt like both an achievement and something easy to achieve all at once. Agwe simply gave a sigh and an eye roll as she turned to look at the new god. “Or would it not have mattered if it did get lost?”

“Oh it absolutely wouldn’t have mattered. I never miss a party when I can.” The god grinned back at her, all teeth but in a way filled with joy and excitement and not the slightly cold, predatory look that the sea-god’s smile gave off. There was a beat before the other smiled even wider and gave a exaggerated bow and hand gesture. “Since the cold fish won’t do it, may I introduce myself? Ti Malice, trickster-extraordinaire, pleasure to meet you.”

Jo let out a little giggle of her own at the flashy showmanship, her mind immediately recognising some of the flare to the god’s presentation from her experiences with her fake-trickster friend. “Nice ta meet cha, I’m Jo Harvelle.”

“There now, boring bits out of the way - we can get rid of the boring old seaman, right?” Ti Malice’s smirk should have sent a shiver down her spine if it had been directed at her, instead it was fully focused on the glaring god beside her who stared back for a long moment. “Oh come on, old man. You know I might be a trickster but I’m not an idiot. Besides, your wife is waving for you.”

Jo glanced back over her shoulder as did Agwe beside her, both to see Erzulie waving a hand towards them and calling barely audibly over the distance and the hum of conversation in the room for the sea-god himself. Jo glanced up at the taller god for a long moment before he gave her a sharp nod and turned to head back to his wife’s side. Blinking a few times, she was unsurprised to realise the trickster had stepped carefully closer on her other side that she shuffled an inch away, getting a laugh in response.

“Don’t worry, I’m far far more behaved than what my title suggests-” “Oh? Because I’ve some history with tricksters. And the last one I dealt with was a right piece’a work.” “Have you now? Which of us was that?” “Stupid fuckin’ fairy-”

Her grumbled words got a loud laugh from the trickster beside her, his laughter bouncing about the courtyard and cutting over and through other conversations like a booming thunderstorm. Jo blushed as she noticed several heads turn their way and staring for a long moment, fiddling with her dress awkwardly as she waited for the man beside her to unbend from his laughter.

“Oh! Oh no wonder you looked like you’d sucked a lemon! Not all of us are like him, I promise.” Ti Malice’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears of laughter as he finally righted himself, wiping at his eyes with a few warm chuckles. “I mean, we are all like that - but some of us are a little more fun and a little less sadistic.”

“That’s good to know-” “If you want sadistic though- come with me!”

Jo let out a surprised yelp as the god grabbed a hold of her closet wrist and tugged her quickly, pulling her through the crowd and weaving through the different groups milling about until he’d reached some unknown destination. She looked up from her feet, where she’d been focusing on not tripping over or slipping on the built up rose petals covering the uneven ground, to blink in surprise at the pair that the trickster god had brought her to.

A willowy, redheaded woman with pale skin that glowed in the warm sunlight that managed to dapple through the overhead tree canopy and an even taller man with skin as dark as hers was pale looked back at her curiously. Ti Malice’s grin was uncomfortably towards that edge of sadistic glee as he gave a tug to pull her in closer to the small little group. “Hey Mama and Daddy, want to see something strange? Look at this one!”

Jo jerked her hand back out of the god’s grip, temper flaring as she slapped away the hand flourishing towards her as if showing off something to the other two. The look of unrepentant on the trickster’s face was far too well suited to his boyish face, and she barely bit down snarling at him as she was gifted with a teasing tongue stuck out at her for a second.

“Malis, what trouble are you causin’ now?” The woman spoke softly, voice gentle and lilting with an Irish accent that matched up in Jo’s mind with her looks quickly. Glancing between the goddess and the man with his arm firmly around her waist, there was a second before Jo managed to work out the pairs identity as the Baron and his wife, Bridgette. “You sure you should be playin’ such games today?”

“Oh Erzy has a good sense of humor when she wants to-” “And you think today she does?” “Well, she will. Or else she’d’ve sent Ogoun over to stop me.”

“He isn’t wrong, renmen,” The Baron said, his voice a gruff growl. Jo barely stopped the shiver the god’s voice made want to happen, the tone rough and somehow bone-chilling for her. Likely something to do with the power the god of the dead held. There was a second before she managed to get control of herself again and glanced up to meet his piercing look straight on like none of the mortals in the whole space seemingly had, and couldn’t hold back the shiver at the next words spoken. “You have died.”

“Yeah, just the once.” Jo replied after a long, quiet moment between the quartet, unable to drop the death god’s gaze. “Fun times had by all, totally enjoyed chokin’ on my own blood. Would totally recommend it.”

“Would you now?” Jo swallowed thickly herself at the dark smile that graced the god’s face as he stared back at her undeterred from her sarcasm. Baron’s eyes stared her down for a further moment before he finally turned to look towards his wife with a wide grin. “I like this one.”

“Now, sweetie, I don’t think that’s goin’ ta work very well. You know how Erzulie is about bein’ the centre of attention and sharin’ anythin’.” Bridgette’s smile was just to the side of patronising as she gazed back at her husband for a moment before rolling her eyes at his shrug. Turning towards Jo, the redhead held out a dainty hand to shake. “Since neither of these men have any manners, I’m Bridgette, and this is my husband the Baron.”

“I guessed that.” Jo smiled back slightly, still processing what the pair had been talking about before shaking her head and taking the other woman’s hand. “ ‘m Jo. Erzulie’s my, uh, I guess patron?”

“Oh yes, that’d be the right term for you-” “Good to know.” “I much prefer my followers to be like that myself too. Unlike some others.” “Huh?”

“Not enough free will, sweetheart, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Bridgette waved a delicate hand around towards the rest of the crowd, pointing out towards the horses milling about in their dull clothes and heads entirely bowed to below that of the shortest god irrespective of their own height. There was a much older man, clearly an old god from the gnarled hands and grey hairs, that was seated and slumped slightly that they all kept to below despite his clear disinterest in being so measured against. And then likewise she pointed to some of the other devotees who kept their eyes downcast but in constant look out for if they’d spoken too loud or interrupted a god’s voice. “I mean, the power is nice and all, but I miss the irreverence of the Irish sometimes.”

“Oh, but don’t you think we deserve subservience?” The chirped voice sprang up on Jo’s other side, and jerking to the side, bumping into the grinning trickster, Jo looked surprised at the young looking woman beside her with a head full of thick curls and wide almond shaped eyes. Her pink dress matched the tones of Erzulie’s herself, and Jo blinked in surprise to see it - having figured the goddess would’ve wanted to be the only one in the color on her special day. “Hi! I’m Filomez, you must be Joanna Harvelle.” There was a second before the girl seemingly broke all patterns of the other pagans and moved forward to tug Jo into a tight hug. “Erzulie’s told me so much about you! I look forward to seeing your devotional later.”

“You’ll be partaking?” The rumbled words from the Baron were less surprising this time as Jo gave a few pats to the young woman’s back before the shorter goddess - one of the only ones near Jo’s own height - pulled back. “So that is the surprise, hmm.”

Jo gave a shrug of her shoulder as she shifted a little, uncertain if she should speak more or not as Malice seemed to jump in making up some story about an entire secret room of devotees that were due to arrive and bolster the beauty goddess’ powers to outshine everyone else in the space. Filomez nodded along, agreeing repeatedly and eyes wide and happy as she spoke about her ‘big sister’ having promised something spectacular. Jo’s stomach felt slightly queasy as she listened, finishing her drink slowly as she shrunk in on herself. It was pressure, and pressure on her she could tell, even if there was any sort of joke that it might not.

Looking around the space, she noted other gods and goddesses having arrived, and especially a beautiful woman in a bright yellow dress that almost outshone against Erzulie’s own glorious gown. Jo frowned noting it, looking around the courtyard for a moment and noting how that goddess seemed to stand out alongside Erzulie. All the others, while dressed ostentatiously and clearly in rich and vibrant colors, were not eye-catching and attention seeking in a way like the newly arrived goddess was. Filomez wore a soft baby pink dress that draped around her to show off her slim figure but it didn’t scream for attention, likewise Baron and Bridgette were matched in black and red clothes that sucked the light from around them but still didn’t draw attention to them over anyone else. Malice’s bright orange jumpsuit might have stood out anywhere else, but seemed considered and paired back in this crowd somehow. But the newly arrived goddess stood out, and in a way that, as Jo flicked a glance towards the centre of the room where Erzulie and her husbands sat to see the glare upon her goddess’ face, was inappropriate.

“Look what the cat dragged in-” “Don’t you mean ‘look out for the cat fight’, Malis?” “Same thing, Baron.”

Jo frowned slightly, attention drawn back to the group she stood near to notice the glare being delivered towards the newcomer from Filomez, and blinked a few times at noticing how the younger looking woman’s face had shifted. It was something she’d seen on Erzulie’s before, the shifting of which facet took control but without the entire change of hair style like the first time Jo’d met the goddess of women. “So, uh, who’s that?”

“Anaisa Pye. She thinks she’s better than my dearest sister.” Filomez spoke, voice harsh and gravelly to the exact opposite that it had been sweet and light before, and it wasn’t until a meaty hand landed on Jo’s head that she realised she’d been waiting for the goddess to speak some more.

Jerking in surprise, she looked up towards the person who’d interrupted to see the impassive looking face of Erzulie’s third husband, Ogoun, looking back at her. “You need to come with me.” The man’s voice was still so quiet, and after a moment he removed his hand and turned back towards the dais and started to walk without waiting for her.

Glancing back to the assorted gods she’d stood with, Jo was unsurprised to see Ti Malice’s eyes glittering with mischief as he opened his mouth to suggest she stay where she was. The other three were less clearly unbothered by the massive warrior god’s arrival and departure, and after raising a quick brow, Jo turned back towards the centre and headed towards her goddess. After all, if she was being summoned, it would be to pray; and then she’d likely be able to head home before any kind of troubles could start if the change in atmosphere she’d noticed since the goddess Anaisa Pye’s arrival spelt.

As she reached the dais, Jo was surprised to notice that the newly arrived goddess was standing before Erzulie herself, cocky smile to her face. “Why, Erzulie, old girl. How lovely to see you today! I hope you’ve not broken your back putting this all on, I wouldn’t want you straining anything.”

“Anaisa, you actually managed to get out of bed for once!” Erzulie replied snippily, eyes focused like a cat on it’s prey. “Tell me, did you make sure to get all the prayers for the year in before this? I mean, that’s the only way you’d get the energy to even make it here.”

“You underestimate my followers, as always. But I suppose you can’t have quite so devoted worshippers as the rest of us who fulfil their needs better, Erzie.” “Better? Oh, you mean by having so few calls that you’ve the time for all, what, three people who ever think to ask you for help, Annie?” “They can’t be all so desperate as to have to ask for yours, you know.”

Jo had to bite down on a smirk watching the two goddesses at each other’s throats as she waited patiently a few steps away. It wasn’t surprising to find that not all gods could stand one another, the animosity reminding her of the Irish couple she’d been exposed to - but without the underlying sexual tension, which she had to cover her mouth to stop from laughing thinking at that comparison.

She must have made a noise though, as Jo found herself with the attention of both goddesses upon her then, and shrinking back a step Jo scowled at the one closest to hers remark. “Oh, what a beautiful dress. I do so love yellow. Are you one of mine, human?”

“Anaisa, that is my follower.” Erzulie’s words were hissed out and sharp, eyes just as cutting as she glared towards the other goddess. “My husband had fetched her for me, Joanna, my darling girl, come sit. We’ll get to your gift after the others.” Jo frowned for a second as she realised that her patron hadn’t dropped her glare from the other goddess’ face yet and yet pointed towards a spot for Jo to sit. Her frown disappeared to realise that she was pointing at the seat that Ogoun had been sitting in before instead of a cushion on the floor, and glancing up, Jo noticed that the tall warrior was stood behind the chair instead. “Quickly, my flower, before the stench of some uncivilised upstart goddess gets caught entirely in my nose.”

“Oh you-” Anaisa sneered back for a second, glaring towards the goddess of the day for a moment, before she turned to stalk off to the side as Jo sat down and Erzulie stood in the same moment to draw the attention of the crowd.

That wasn’t hard for the goddess though. She barely needed to raise her voice to silence all the murmuring of the gods around the space, hands thrown wide and shimmering small golden light sparks around the space where her chains and bracelets and rings caught the sunlight. Erzulie clearly intended to make a point of this all. “Everyone! Thank you all for joining me today on such an important date.” Her voice was sweet and warm, but the underlying current of power that ran through it reminded Jo of her other facet - the fierce, blood thirtsty side that gave the power to the downtrodden to rise up. “I look forward to our next gathering for the next feast day with glee, but before that can happen, so to must todays rituals. My love, the first?”

Jo was unsurprised to see that Damballah was the husband to step forward and beckon to the first of those humans here to give over a ritual or gift to the goddess. What did surprise Jo was to witness how those who were so drawn into this religion and practices gave their thanks to a deity right in front of them. She knew, of course, how the usual practices went and was not surprised to see a goat’s blood spilled at one point or, given the goddess in question, bottles and bottles of perfume poured out into vessels before the worshiper would spill drops of their own blood in as well. She was surprised however to witness how with each prayer or sacrifice that the goddess seated on the throne beside her would glow faintly, and that each devotee was granted the permission to approach the dais and kiss the goddess’ feet before being rewarded with a kiss to the crown of their heads. It was something strange to see the looks of wonder and awe on each of the worshipers faces as they genuflected over and over as they retreated after each of their provisions; that such a small symbol, from a goddess that Jo saw more as a quirky aunt that pinched her cheeks than a deity, meant so much to these people. Jo even watched with eyes wide as the practitioner who introduced her to the idea of drawing from the voodoo gods was there and gave her own thanks. Jo was more surprised to see the look of absolute astonishment and wonder when the other saw her seated there. That look would haunt her for a while.

As the last person bowed and scurried back from the dais, Jo was unsurprised to see a hand held out to her from the god standing behind her. Ogoun helped her to her feet, even though Jo raised a brow at the sheer idea she might have needed the help, and walked her to the same spot that the others had stood to put forth their sacrifices.

Jo waited a second after he’d let her hand go and moved to take the seat that she had vacated to look about uncertainly. It was all well and good to pray, and she would easily, but after witnessing the others it felt a little anticlimactic, especially since she clearly held far less belief than the others.

“Um…” She shifted her weight awkwardly, weighing up the options. “I, uh-” Looking around, Jo could see a few gods shifting their own weight and twisting to mumble to one another. Obviously laughing at the lost little girl, and likewise laughing at Erzulie who stared down at her impassively. There was a moment as a dark brow quirked at her, before Jo glanced around again before letting out a quiet noise of approval as she spotted something she could contribute. Approaching the closest table, Jo pulled a lit candle from the centrepiece before moving back before the altar - candle still aflame and the wax dripping down one side of the candle to the floor. It took barely a moment to pull one of the blood-dipped daggers she had strapped to her legs to start the carvings that she knew off by heart at this point, even as she felt her cheeks flushing brightly at the laughter and murmurs she could hear from those around her at that. As she finished the last of the swirling curls of the heart design for the goddess before her, Jo raised an eyebrow back at the other before setting it down.

There didn’t seem to be anything for a moment before Erzulie gestured towards the flame with her hand and Jo gave a quiet sigh. Kneeling down, she pressed the edge of her blade to her thumb before holding her dripping finger over the flame itself. Pressing on the wound gently with her other hand until a enough drops of blood had fallen to extinguish the flame, Jo let out a gasp as she noticed the light in the room change from the overhead shadows of the sun to something shining and golden before her. Looking up, it wasn’t just her clearly surprised to see the amount of light shining off the goddess. Erzulie sat smiling wide, toothy and pleased, as her skin seemed to almost glow golden like her necklaces and chains, and her hair likewise shone golden. The shine didn’t go down completely like it had after a few seconds from the other sacrifices and rituals, it seemed to sink into the goddess’ skin but not leave as a whole, her whole being softly radiating light under her form as she smiled down towards the blonde.

Rising to her feet, Jo approached at the hand the goddess held out towards her, frowning slightly as she got before her. “I ain’t kissin’ your feet, just so you know.” Jo heard herself speak again, and scrunched her eyes up as she heard what she said, before letting out a sigh of relief at the laugh she got in response.

“Of course not, my flower,” Erzulie replied gently, standing from her seat for a moment like she hadn’t for the other followers before surprising her with a kiss to her forehead unlike anyone else. “You’ve been having a very good time lately, Joanna, I am so happy for you and that I can share in even a little bit of it. Thank you again, my sweet girl.”

Jo felt herself frowning slightly as the goddess pressed another kiss to her forehead before letting go of her, and stepping away, Jo was not surprised to see that those milling around were no longer looking at her at all but drawn entirely like moths to the flame towards the power exuding from the goddess behind her. It was expected. Gods of their kind, those with slowly diminishing follower bases but who still relied upon them would always be drawn towards such sparks of power, and especially the god or goddess that had it at the time.

Moving through the crowd moving forward was easy enough for her - no other mortals seemed to still be present, having left after each of their sacrifices or prayers themselves; and what was a mortal to a god? Shaking her head to herself as she wiped her dagger off on a nearby cloth napkin, Jo was actually surprised to hear a cough from behind her. Turning about, she kept a firm grip on her blade and the cloth as well as she stared cautiously towards the god before her.

“A pretty demonstration there, girl.” The god was surprisingly tall compared to when she’d seen him before, spindly though and his eyes seemed almost ancient as she looked up at him. The god hadn’t moved at all throughout the whole time she’d been there from the seat he’d been sunk into, his old body clearly reflective of his age and looking down at the cane and dog by his side, Jo let out a whoosh of air as she realised which of the loas had approached her. The only one old enough not to care for the frenzied and overly bouncy reaction of the goddess on her throne. Papa Legba stared down at her with eyes milky from cataracts but that seemed to see right through her. “I would leave if I were you, child. They say beware being a favorite, but also being known to be favorite can be even more dangerous. Especially amongst those starving for power.”

Jo frowned slightly, twisting the hand at her side holding the cloth napkin as the god’s dog shuffled forwards to sniff at her hand, before she moved to stroke the animal’s head for a moment. The god’s words felt kind in a way none of the other’s had - the trickster wanted to cause trouble; the god of the dead wanted to get under her skin and his wife was simply bored; the young goddess was bold but didn’t have enough to know what was right or wrong; the fiery competitor had said no kind words towards her that weren’t selfish in it’s own; the three husbands cared only for their competition and their wife; and while Erzulie favored her, that was always self serving and selfish as the goddess was. The old man’s words felt kind for the sake of kindness and compassion. The voice that spoke of more than just his own power nor the demands for power from humans, the communicator between the worlds of gods and the realms of humans, the one who still held a compassion for humans and their fleeting worlds.

As the dog snuffled at her hand and after she scratched under it’s chin, Jo glanced up ready to thank the other to note his warm eyes already nodding to her without her having to speak. There was another moment before the old god turned, picking his way back into the crowd, through which Jo could still see the golden goddess spinning and laughing and soaking in all the attention she craved so much. Drinking in being the centre of the world for a few brief hours in a way that left the blonde sighing in sympathy and pity as she turned to head home to true safety and where the world span from.

----

[kathyprior4200]

The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno

(What it says on the back)

 “You poor sack of former human skin and sin. You died and are stuck in Hell. Now what? Fear not, for in this book, you shall find the answers to seek on what you need to know to survive the inferno. You’ll learn how to stay safe and entertain yourself during the Extermination. You’ll get a sneak peek on the origins of voodoo, radio, and Jambalaya. And as for becoming a better person and getting out of this mess? You’re probably stuck here forever until you die again, but this book will provide you with handy information and a much needed cure for your boredom!”

 *Includes a free pamphlet for the Hazbin Hotel and how to tune in to 66.6 FM.*

 About the author: Alastor “Hazbin” Cajun was born January 24, 1896 in New Orleans, Louisiana. He died in 1933 and is now one of the most powerful demons Hell has ever seen. In his spare time, he loves broadcasting his murders on the radio, cooking meals, making dolls, and performing. As of 2020, he is 87 years old in Hell and 124 years chronologically. However, his friend princess Charlie is 200 + years old, despite having the appearance of a teenager!”

  This is a story of a book, a book called “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno”--not an Earth book, never published on Earth, and until the Exterminations occurred, no Earthling has ever heard of it.

 It is a remarkable book in Hell, though.

 It is highly successful, written by the one and only Radio Demon Alastor. It’s more successful than Angel Dust’s “Guns, and Poses: Turf Wars in Style,” “Lust is a Must,” and “Being Gay in a World of Macho Sinners.” Unfortunately for the following authors, Charlie Magne’s book “Rainbows Inside Everyone” remains one of the lowest ranked books along with Vaggie’s “Men Are Pigs.”

 Alastor got his book revised by his associate Niffty and published by Husk (after bribing him with money and booze. Niffty had to help him with the publishing process and stop him from using his money to bet on who would win the local Hellhound races.) Alastor hopes that his book will soon topple Hell’s number one bestseller from the king of Hell: Lucifer Magne’s “Fall From Grace.”

  It has many passages that may be inaccurate, and it does warn the reader never to cross said Radio Demon, unless they’re curious about what their organs look like from the outside.

 The majority of this story is broadcasted on radio, for if all the info were piled in a book, it’d take several leagues of demons to carry it.

 There are many benefits to this book. This book is slightly cheaper than Angel Dust’s works and it has the word “Smile!” written in large friendly letters on the cover. In an old fashioned TV is the number 66, the meaning of life in Hell.

   Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Jambalaya: (Page 14)

“Jambalaya is a traditional dish that originated in Louisiana in the 18th century. The dish was a result of attempts to make a variation of paella for Spanish colonists. Although the recipe was adapted by the Spanish, but Senegalese slaves brought the knowledge of rice cultivation form West Africa. German immigrants brought their secrets of sausage making to Cajun country. And one can’t forget the influence of French and Native Americans, whom contributed more flavor. (meaning they likely added peppers and seasoning, not their own flesh).

 “Jambalaya consists of rice, sausage, shrimp, and a variety of vegetables mixed together in a tasty gumbo. The “holy trinity” mixture consists of diced onion, celery, and bell peppers, a necessity for flavor in regards to the traditional method.

 Common meats used are smoked pork sausage, paired with chicken, though diced ham, shrimp, crabmeat or crawfish can also be added.

 There are two main types of Jambalaya: Red Jambalaya, also known as Creole Jambalaya, due to the use of red tomatoes and Brown Jambalaya, more often used in Cajun country. Both are equally tasty.

 Jambalaya is a rice dish, thus it is not a gumbo nor is it etouffee. Gumbo is more like soup and etouffee is more like a stew.

 Fun Fact: hunting is a beloved pastime in south Louisiana. It’s not uncommon for hunters to add game like duck, pheasant, and venison to their Jambalaya recipe. (Venison is my personal favorite, especially after a good hunt.) If you really want to go bold, feel free to add small slices of human meat to create a unique lighter pork flavor.)

 Do be warned: Jambalaya is no simple dish to make at times. It is a bad idea to add gunpowder and or wasabi to the dish. Doing so will likely result in the dish exploding in your poor mother’s face. Indeed, my mother’s recipe nearly killed her when she drank too much Southern Comfort Whisky ™ and decided that adding gunpowder was a great idea. Her face was burnt badly afterwards and there may have been a few slabs of her dark skin that fell into the dish. When I tasted it, the kick was straight outta Hell! The spice and chaotic spin of flavor…fantastic!”

 Here’s how to make it in a nutshell: brown your meat, sautee your vegetables, add rice, add liquid bring to a boil, stir, reduce heat and simmer for 20-25 minutes. Add them all together.

For full instructions, see the next page.

For instructions on how to hunt deer, see page 20.”

  Reference:

McCormick, “Jambalaya Recipes, History, and FAQs.”

https://www.mccormick.com/zatarains/jambalaya

  Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Voodoo, Hoodoo and dark magic (Page 177)

“According to Benjamin Radford, Voodoo is a pop-culture subpart of Voudon, an Afro-Caribbean religion that originated in Haiti. Followers can be found all over the world, including the United States. Leslie Desmangles, Haitian professor at Hartford’s Trinity College describes Voodoo as a system of ethics, stories, songs, proverbs, and folklore that is passed down through generations. It is an elaborate folk medical practice system and to her, it is a way of life. (“The Encyclopedia of the Paranormal” Prometheus Books, 1996.)

 In Voodoo belief, Bondye is the unknowable and the supreme creator God. Voudon emphasizes the worship of spirits called Loa, each one who represents a different aspect of life. Loas can help or impede human affairs by possessing the bodies of their worshippers. They can be good or bad or anywhere in between, so it’s best to always treat them with respect and leave proper offerings (not human sacrifice but more like animals, plants, gems etc.) Spiritual possession in Christianity is considered to be evil, but not in Voudon. In a ceremony guided by a priest or priestess, a connection to the spirit world and the ancestors is said to be an invaluable experience. Many practitioners believe in reincarnation.

 Voodoo deities are as follows:

   Loa Nations:

Rada – (creation, orderly, beneficial, water spirits)

Petro – (destruction, aggressive, warlike, New World)

Ghede – (spirits of the dead, loud, rude fun family, eating glass and hot peppers)

Kongo – Marinette, Simbi (water serpents, plants, poisons)

Nago – Ogoun –Loa of craftsmen, metalwork

  Deities:

 Bondye: The creator god in the Voodoo religion and the loa answer to him. The loa serve as intermediaries between man and Bondye.

 Papa Legba:  Sun god Loa associated with the crossroads and serves as an intermediary between man and the spirit world. In some places, he is seen as a fertility god, portrayed with a large erect phallus. In other customs, he is a trickster, or he may be a protector of children. He is associated with red and black, portrayed as an old man with a straw hat accompanied by a dog. He is always the first god to be invoked in ceremonies.

 Kalfu: moon god and ruler of the night. Patron deity of sorcerers, and those who practice black magic. He rules bad luck, destruction, and injustices. His favorite drink is rum laced with gunpowder. He is often seen as a darker version of Papa Legba.

 Maman Brigitte: Loa associated with death and the underworld. She is the consort of Baron Samedi and is often represented by a black rooster. She is also considered a goddess of justice. Rum and hot peppers are her favorite diet.

Maman Brigitte is portrayed as a light-skinned woman with red hair, it is said that she could be descended from Brigid, the Celtic goddess of the hearth fires and domestic life.

 Baron Samedi: Husband of Maman Brigitte, Baron Samedi is the god of death and is both respected and feared as the keeper of cemeteries. He often appears skeletal, wearing a top hat and formal tails and dark glasses. He is also a god of resurrection; only he can welcome a soul to the realm of the dead.

He is known for lewd behavior, swearing, and mating with other women. He is connected to powerful acts of magic and is the leader of the Guede, the family of loa who work with the dead.

 Erzulie: goddess of beauty and love, epitome of femininity and womanhood. She represents the cosmic womb in which divinity and humanity are conceived. Erzulie often grieves that which she cannot obtain, and sometimes leaves a ceremony weeping. She is sometimes represented as a black Madonna and other times as an upper class woman in fine clothing and jewelry.

Her three husbands are the war god Ogun, the sea god Agwe and Damballah. Erzulie feels sadness due to the broken hearts of humans.

 Loco: The god of wild vegetation, herbs and fruits for killing or healing. He is also the patron deity of doctors and Voodoo priests. His wife is the market goddess Ayzian (also deity of Voodoo priestesses).

 Shango: God of fire, judge, fighter, symbolized by double-axe or ram’s horn.

 Ogun: War god Loa associated with blacksmiths, warriors, and justice. Practitioners call upon Ogun for matters related to war and conflict and likes offerings of male roosters and dogs. He is symbolized by an iron knife or machete and has a fondness for pretty women and rum.

Ogun stood as Ghede Nibo’s godfather and adopted him.

 Oya: goddess of wind, fire, sea, nature and sudden change.

 Damballah: The creator of gods and humanity who helped Bondye make the cosmos and is represented by a giant serpent. His coils shaped the heavens and earth and he is the keeper of knowledge, wisdom, and healing magic. Damballah looks after the crippled, albinos, and children. Erzulie is his consort. He loves silver. His son, Simbi is a white snake god who brings rain.

 Ayida: The goddess of the rainbow and primary wife to creator Damballah. The pair manifest as intertwined serpents. Ayida also serves as a fertility goddess. Her favorite offerings are white food. Ayizan, her daughter, is goddess of the marketplace and of initiation into the sacred truths, making her the head Mambo (Voodoo priestess.)

 Oshun: One of the Orishas, Oshun is a goddess connected to rivers and water. She is associated with wealth, pleasure, love, beauty, and sexuality. Oshun’s colors are orange and golden yellow, green and coral.

 Yemaya: motherly goddess of the sea

 Obatala: Goddess of the heavens, personification of creative energy: old with white hair

 Agwe: The god of the sea and patron deity of sailors and fishermen. Agwe taught humans how to fish and build boats. He is one of the husbands of the love goddess Erzulie. Agwe is green-eyed and dresses like a naval officer.

  Zaca: The god of agriculture and the harvest. He dresses in denims and a straw hat. Zaca smokes a pipe, drinks from bottles of rum and wields a machete.

 Marassa: Mawa and Lisa: divine twins: male and female energy, personify sun and moon

  Radford states that Roman Catholicism imposed their religious beliefs onto many civilizations, including African slaves. The Africans and African Americans combined Catholicism with their West African beliefs. A 1685 law forbade the practice of African religions in the U.S. In fact, slavery was accepted as a tool to convert Africans to Christianity. In the process, many of their spirits became associated with Christian saints.

 Even though slavery ended in the 1800’s, followers of Voudon were still persecuted by authorities, and their religion was demonized. In an 1889 book titled “Hayti, or the Black Republic” (Filiquarian, 2012), Voudon was falsely attributed to cannibalism, human sacrifice, and other atrocities. This helped to spread fear of the religion…portraying certain aspects like voodoo dolls, dark magic, zombies etc. in media and literature. Added onto that, it also strengthened racist stereotypes: African Americans were viewed as “primal,” and “savage,” due to their practices and behaviors as perceived by those outside their culture.

 Voodoo has gained more respect in modern times, but all too many people don’t know the truth about it. Even today, many Christians associate Voudon and Voodoo with Satanism and the occult. Interestingly enough, voodoo dolls have little to do with the actual rituals.

 Here’s how I found out about Voodoo. It started a long time ago back when I was alive. My mother Loretta was Creole, and her ancestors came from Haiti. She told me that my grandmother Antoinette Duvalier was a powerful Voodoo priestess who once lived in Haiti but immigrated to the U.S. as a slave. Even though she was treated like dirt by the predominant owners and whites, she was well respected by those who knew her. Legend states that she was related to Marie LaLaurie, (1787-1849), New Orleans serial killer, cruel to Creole slaves. In fact, my cousin is Clementine Barnabet, a Louisiana voodoo priestess and serial killer, killed families with an axe.

  Needless to say, my mother followed in her footsteps as much as possible. Though during her life, she mostly had to work in low level secretary jobs as women didn’t have many opportunities. She taught me everything there was to know about Voodoo, cooking, singing, sewing, (and yes, cannibalism in dire circumstances, though she didn’t like to talk about that.) She warned me multiple times that magic was, indeed, real, and to never use it for evil. There were “evil” Loas as well as “good” ones. She told me that Voodoo wasn’t about cannibalism or sacrifice.

 As you can imagine, I didn’t listen in the long run. For several reasons.

 One was my father, Louis. A white, strong man with black hair, a mustache and French heritage. He constantly tried to shove the Bible down my throat. He would whip and abuse me whenever I didn’t meet his expectations of being a man. That bastard would sleep with other women behind my mother’s back but of course, she couldn’t do anything about it.

 I was scared of him. I was tempted to cry whenever he would hit her for no apparent reason. But both my parents told me to always smile, so I did. I’ve learned to hide my emotions and keep up a façade ever since. It’s necessary when you’re a radio host by day and a serial killer by night. Nobody would suspect a friendly comedian to be the Bayou Butcher/Louisiana Lunatic of New Orleans. It’s how I managed to get away with my actions for so long until my brutal death by dogs and being shot in the head.

 Two was the opportunity for power. I learned that in a hard life of bullying at school, and blatant racism for being of mixed heritage, you take any opportunity that comes your way.

 I was so caught up in the prospects of deal making that even I started to believe the cannibalism and misconceptions of Voodoo.

Basically, I came across a Satanic ritual book dropped by a group of imps from Hell on accident. It was in this book that I learned about spells, cannibalism, and black magic. I came upon a passage with instructions on how to gain near unlimited power in the afterlife. I made a deal with Kalfu and the Petro Loas of destruction. (My mother supported the benevolent Rada like I did once.) It was a risky one: to gain such power, I would have to bear witness to at least three deaths, a victim, a loved one…and myself. Turns out it all happened, after I killed many victims in Kalfu’s name, and when I eventually died. My mother died from the Spanish Flu and my father got what he deserved after I tracked him down and tortured him. Strangely enough, whether it’d be guilt or his meat I ate, I felt sick for several days afterwards.

 My deal with Kalfu and the dark Loas was how I got my current powers in Hell. You probably noticed my use of blood magic and how red voodoo symbols hover in the air whenever I use my powers. Not to mention me having control over voodoo imps, dolls, and shadow spirits. I am quite powerful, but I can’t use too much at once…it can be very taxing to use dark magic. But that deal was well worth it and now I make deals with other demons around at times. It’s how I got Husk and Niffty on my side…I summon them and they have no choice but to assist me!”

  References:

Radford, Benjamin, (2013). “Voodoo: Facts About Misunderstood Religion” LiveScience. https://www.livescience.com/40803-voodoo-facts.html

https://www.white-magic-help.net/About_White_Magic/Voodoo_History_Basic_Principles_Background.html

https://www.learnreligions.com/voodoo-gods-4771674

© Edward Wozniak and Balladeer’s Blog 2014. https://glitternight.com/2014/08/13/the-top-eleven-deities-in-voodoo-mythology/

      Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Cannibalism (Page 65)

 “Along with deer meat, jambalaya and many other kinds of food, I also have a rare fondness for eating humans and demons. You’re probably thinking: ‘Oh god, how gross and horrible! Who in their right mind would eat their own kind?’

Apparently, there are some tribes and a few cultures in the world that still engage in the practice. Not to mention several killers throughout the years. There are many kinds of animals such as the cane toad and redneck spider, who eat their own kind.  Human ancestors have engaged in the act for survival, or ritual purposes. And in Hell, it’s as common as getting into fights with other demons.

 In early history of human species, human and Neanderthals coexisted together, interbred, ate together and sometimes ate each other. Homo antecessor, the last common ancestor between Neanderthals and modern humans would often eat rival group members. Early humans in Europe practiced ritual cannibalism.

 Around the 12th century, human remains were incorporated into medical practices for remedies. “Corpse medicine” remained in use until the late 18th century. The Aztec and the Inca engaged in cannibalism as part of a sacrificial religious rite. In Germany, some executioners would sell leftover body parts as medicine. Human fat was sold as a remedy for arthritis and broken bones. Apothecaries stored fat, flesh and bone…and let’s not forget that some people eat their own placentas in modern times.

 The word “cannibalism” comes from the name that the Spanish gave to the Caribs/Canibales. The Caribs were engaged in anti-colonial battles with European powers…claiming they were cannibals may have been a fear propaganda tactic by the Spanish.

In Montaigne’s late 1500s essay “Of Cannibals,” shows an anthropological record of the Tupi people in what is now Brazil. They would taunt their captives by “entertain[ing] them with threats of their own death.”

 In early America, while some Native American tribes practiced cannibalism, some colonists had to resort to it, such as the Jamestown colony in 1610.

But the public commonly associates cannibalism with the Donner-Party, groups of people that were snowbound in the Sierra Mountains in 1846-47.

 Famine in the USS in the 1920s and 30s took millions of lives and forced survivors to turn to cannibalism, an event known as the Great Chinese Famine.

In modern times, cannibalism is still an acceptable practice in some tribes in New Guinea, like the Korowai tribe. Until the 1950s, the Fore people ate the bodies of relatives as they believed it would cleanse their spirits.

  Also, do not try self-cannibalism…you will die and I will find it hilarious. In fact, eating humans is considered taboo nearly everywhere because eating humans can make you sick. This is especially true if you eat the brain. Eating the brain can cause kuru, a brain disease similar to mad cow disease. Like any kind of meat, human meat much be properly cooked and prepared. But as I’m an undead demon, I can eat myself and others no problem. I don’t really know how I managed to survive when I ate my victims more often when I was human.

 There are tons of ways to prepare humans and demons and I have used them all:

Baking in the oven

Grilling

Frying in a pan

Steaming in a pot

Barbeque

Cooking over a fire pit

Chopping them on a board and eating raw pieces

Swallowing whole

  References:

Edwards, Phil. (2015) “& Surprising Facts About Cannibalism” Vox. https://www.vox.com/2015/2/17/8052239/cannibalism-surprising-facts

 Talal Al-Khatib (May 13, 2015) “Cannibalism: A History of People Who Eat People.” Seeker. https://www.seeker.com/cannibalism-a-history-of-people-who-eat-people-1769840684.html

 (Using a website with Vox’s name on it…life is a big slap in the face.)

 Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Radio Broadcasting (Page 5)

“Many folks call me the Radio Demon for good reason. One of my signature skills is the ability to broadcast what goes on around me anytime, anywhere. I’ve always loved being on center stage…I was a bit of a theater nut back in primary school. Fun fact: My shadow and I can travel through radios and produce static in the outside world in Hell.

 One of the neat things about being a radio host is you can spread news to anyone in different places in the world…and no one even has to see you. In my human life, it provided me with a stable career and something to occupy my mind. My favorite things to talk about were dad jokes, cooking food, singing songs, and of course, murders that had happened. My broadcasts had to go underground when my descriptions of murders became graphic, both when I did them and when other killings were reported on the news.

 My career wasn’t easy to start off with…it was quite a competitive business and I was lucky to start off as a janitor and radio repair man for a few years. My dad thought it was a worthless job but my mother supported me all the way. I slowly moved up the ladder, learning more techniques as I went along. Soon, I decided I would start my own show…become self-employed. My career really reached its peak during World War One and the start of the Roaring Twenties. I could describe all the casualties of the war to the public, talk about my own victims to my followers, all while ending with “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile,” my favorite song! I felt like I was on top of the world…not even my dad nor the ignorant folk could stop me. Like many people during the age of jazz and splendor, I basked in riches, ate good food and drinks…had tons of ladies at my feet. They were good friends, and even better victims! I was never interested in sex and romance…too many messy emotions. I didn’t want to be touched and nor down by anybody.  (Thanks a lot, father.)

 All this was before the police found me, my show was canceled, and my beloved radios destroyed by those seeking revenge. I smiled, I fell from grace, and I died during the Great Depression. Life really does have a twisted sense of humor.”  

 Experimental radio broadcasting began at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City, 1910 with a program made by Lee De Forest. The WWJ Detroit station is considered the first radio station in the U.S. The National Broadcasting Company (NBC) presented the first national broadcast in 1926, when I was in my late twenties. From 1925 to 1950, radios were a major source of family entertainment, where people could listen to music, stories, and the news. The success of NBC brought the Columbia Broadcasting System (CBS) into creation by William Paley.

 Some radio stations transmit radio signals using amplitude modulation, which became the term for AM radio. AM broadcasts can be received at long distances, but the signals and sound are affected by static. In contrast, other stations transmit signals using frequency modulation, hence the initial FM. FM waves reproduce sound better.

 I died in 1933 when radio was popular. But my rival, Vox (name means Voice in Latin) died in the 1950s, when television was becoming popular. He hosted his own program and did picture shows seemingly all the time. I remember him: tall, white skinned, slick short dark hair, eyes the color of dull metal. He advertised drugs, phones, cars, and a whole bunch of things…he enjoyed money a lot. Anything new he liked, new toys, new tech, new girls, then when they didn’t work, he’d replace them. Made me sick.

 In Hell, I confronted him once and told him he was a big showoff. I was quite mad that picture shows took over radio…he even called me an outdated geek with a voice of static! He had this stupid robotic voice that I couldn’t take seriously. When he shot me in the head from behind, I had enough. I held him in place with black tentacles, figuring out how he died. Then I heard someone mention his death…

So…with a loud crash, a large TV appeared out of nowhere and crushed his stupid face. I was doubling over with laughter as I left, he picked himself up and yelled, his screen face all cracked.

 So, what should you do in Hell? Listen to the radio, of course! Picture shows are fun as well, but even they can’t beat the classic radio. I know you techno folk flock to TV’s and computers thanks to Vox…both are annoying in my opinion. But radios are a great source of entertainment, especially when I’m on the air. My show starts at 6AM and 6PM every other day at 66.6FM. You can find radios in a whole bunch of stores and at the Hazbin Hotel…and if you’re brave, you can find cursed ones at the Black Market (all owned by me of course). If any demon gives you trouble, you can turn the dials a bit and the radio will either crush them or suck them inside. But be careful…listening for too long may cause you to sing, dance, experience your fears, and stab anyone within six feet of you.  I have plenty of radios in my lair in the shadow world beneath Hell, but you’ll never be able to go there. But just say the word and I’ll gladly store your remains in my icebox.”

 References:

“Broadcasting: The History of Radio” https://law.jrank.org/pages/4873/Broadcasting-History-Radio.html

   Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Sewing Voodoo Dolls (Page 38)

 “I have made tons of voodoo dolls both as a human and in Hell. I have my own collection of ones that resemble Charlie, Vaggie, Husk, Niffty and many others. Niffty helps me sometimes after she helps make me more clothes. Don’t tell anyone this, but I secretly snuggle with a doll I made to resemble my mother. She briefly went to Hell in the form of a powerful voodoo deer, but went up to Heaven before I got a chance to see her. It’s been decades.”

 Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Jazz (Page 72)

 “Music has always held a special place in my heart. Growing up in New Orleans, I was surrounded by jazz, live music, and theater. Playing instruments, singing, dancing, and performing were not just fun pastimes. Doing these hobbies also helped during certain times. Take the Great Depression or the Roaring Twenties or my way to bask in the spotlight as examples. I can play lots of instruments: piano, saxophone, trumpet, violin and furby organ. If you don’t know what that is, it’s an organ made from furry robotic toys made by this “LOOK MUM NO COMPUTER” human.”

    According to the National Park Service et al., the early development of jazz (1895) is associated with Charles “Buddy” Bolden, a popular bandleader. Throughout the 19th century, diverse ethnical groups cumulated their cultures and styles together, creating an evolution in music. Musicians of diverse backgrounds were united by their common love of music.

 One of my role models was real life Edward “Kid” Ory, a guy who lead his own band at age 14 and entertained dancers. He was the son of a White Frenchman and a Creole Woman of Afro-Spanish and Native American heritage, pretty much like me. I’m surprised we aren’t related. During my human life, I played in bands at Economy Hall, a dance hall that provided social services such as brass band dances for the Black Community. Many well-known jazz stars included real life Louis Armstrong, Joe Oliver, Johnny and Warren Dodds etc. During the Jazz Age in the 1920s, I was quite busy indeed with radio broadcasting career, playing jazz, performing at clubs and killing people on the side in the name of Kalfu and Satan. Music helped me get through the loss of my mother’s death via the Spanish Flu. I did also get my revenge on my father and uncle but that’s a story for another time.”

  References:

National Park Service. (2015) A New Orleans Jazz History https://www.nps.gov/jazz/learn/historyculture/jazz_history.htm

  Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about the Exterminations (Page 665)

“The annual Exterminations sure are fun to watch! It’s the one day out of the year where the dark angels travel from Heaven and into Hell to purge the citizens at random. This is done to reduce the abnormally high population down here. During the 24 hours, I relax in the safety of my lair, occasionally going up to watch the slaughters from inside a building, Niffty and Husk by my side. I broadcast what goes on so other demons can have their share of entertainment. Not only am I in a safe place, but anytime the Exterminators try and surround me, I just tear them to pieces, throw them into portals or just scare them off by staring at them. There is a collection of horned Exterminator heads I have for decoration along my mantle and near the stuffed deer heads on display. Their sinister smiles and Xs over their right eyes adds to the place. Niffty sometimes comes down to my lair to help spruce it up and even when she leaves, a strong spell ensures that she will never tell anyone about its location.”

 Someday when I rule Hell, the Exterminators will be the ones who are exterminated. Exterminators carry spears, swords, and harpoons which can kill any demon instantly. So I always try to be careful. I know that some demons can sell them on the black market so they can kill their enemies. I have several of them in a safe to use in emergencies.

 What should you do in an Extermination? Stock up and lock up, if you’re smart. Make sure you have plenty of food, drinks and things to keep you entertained during the 24 hours. And be sure to get the stuff early unless you want to fight a dozen sinners for groceries. Exterminators fly in the open, so barricade yourself in a building with few windows and openings. If you’re unlucky enough to be out in the open, run for your life and say your prayers! You will know when it starts by the sounds of air raid sirens. When it is over, Charlie will go out to her balcony and shoot fireworks in the sky, signaling that it’s safe to go out. Feel free to fight for territory, sing, grab a drink or feast on the deceased…but get in my way and you’ll regret it.”

  Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Taking Over Territory (Page 187)

“When I first came to Hell, I was filled with bloodlust and dark power. Excited to be granted a new form by the shadow spirits, Satan and the Loas, I took full advantage. I toppled overlords who had ruled for centuries, and I broadcast my carnage and victories. I defeated that snake lord guy and grew my supernatural army. Many of the previous overlords didn’t have much magical power or they were easily fooled by my speeches and schemes.

 But I knew that just having shadows at my beck and call weren’t enough. I needed corporeal demons to do my deeds as well. Thus I made deals with Husk, Niffty, and several others. Niffty admired me and my powers the moment I summoned her from the flames of the burning lake and into a fireplace at the hotel. She was happy to be free from the fires. My appearance and charming nature had her blushing and flustered. I told her she can do the things she enjoys: cooking, cleaning, sewing, reading and writing. Husk was more reluctant to serve me but I bribed him with money and booze… promising him “wealth and true love.” Both are beneficial: Niffty is quick on her feet and Husk is strong and good at gambling. Oh, it sure is fun to mess around with them.

 Additionally, I spend time with my dear friend and performer Mimzy and Rosie, a fellow overlord. All three of us are pretty close. The demons know that I’ve conquered a territory by the presence of tall radio towers nearby. Or whenever some demons go to a certain area, they encounter some voodoo creatures and shadows who warn them to stay away.”

 How do you take over territory? Choose your battles well. Don’t rush into a fight thinking you can win. Gather allies or if you’re powerful enough, just rely on yourself. The time right after the Extermination is the ideal time to claim land since many demons have perished. It’s also when many other demons fight over different areas. It’s fun to hear about it on the picture shows, especially when I’m mentioned.”

 Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Asexuality (Page 221)

 “Some of you may or may not know this, but I’m asexual and aromantic. I’m not interested in sex nor romantic relationships with either men or women. Many of you fans have shipped me with Charlie and Angel and pretty much every other demon in Hell. Tell me mortals…why in the nine circles would I ever be into my rival Vox, or a pathetic loner scientist…or Hell forbid, Lucifer? Charlie is a lovely lady and a good friend, but if she’s no use to me for my plans in the long run, then she’s not worth it. And Angel…he’s alright, if not annoying and clingy. He invades my personal space and I certainly do not want to know what goes on in his perverted head. I’d rather get shot a dozen times than allow Angel to lay his hands on me (who knows where they’ve been). I don’t really love anyone, save for myself and my mama. It’s just the way I am.

 In my time, sexuality terms did not exist. Anyone with an abnormal obsession with the opposite sex was called heterosexual. And homosexual was a derogatory term for those who were outside the norm in regards to sexuality. It was bad enough that my father and uncle chided me for not being into girls and sex like a “real man” should. The thought of merging my body with someone else’s was gross. I invade personal space, but I feel repulsed when other’s touch me…it’s like I’m not in control in the situation. Plus, even if I wanted to have sex, there’s no point as sinners can’t reproduce down here. And I don’t like to be tied down…having to accommodate my needs for someone. Aside from dancing, having the occasional dinner with someone nice, there are better things to do in my time than typical romantic antics.  I learned very early on in my life that the only person I could really trust was myself…Alastor. It wasn’t hard to put up a charming exterior to make many women fall for me…including my dear friend Mimzy. The other women and men who stayed around for a while got tied up in my basement and screamed as I stabbed them and split their throats. Hey, you never know who will come into your life.”  

   Asexuality is defined as a lack of sexual attraction. Asexuals are not sexually attracted to anyone. Those who are aromantic are not romantically attracted to anyone. However, like sexual individuals, asexuals are different and have their own needs and levels of comfort. Some asexuals might be romantically attracted to males, females, or both. Others might desire intimacy and many are in relationships with asexuals and sexual individuals. Sadly, many asexuals feel broken and out of place due to cultural portrayals of sexuality in the media and other institutions.

References:

https://lgbt.williams.edu/homepage/10-things-you-need-to-know-about-asexuality/

Asexuality Visibility and Education Network. https://www.asexuality.org/

[grimey--gal]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NONNIE

1

It starts very slow, almost unnoticeable. He is an old soul anyways - he has always assumed some aches and pains would come with becoming human again. At times, his neck would be sore, or his joints would feel tender, and he passed it off as trivial, taking a drink to mask the pain. He does not mention anything to Andy, who he assumes would not care much anyways. They are barely even roommates, let alone friends. And Andy has problems of his own. 

One morning, he can’t quite get out of bed right away. He feels hot and shivers when he finally sits up, and he sweats and chills at the same time. His heart pounds erratically in his chest, but it goes away with a shot or two. He goes about his day, smoking more than he probably should. 

A week passes, and a day comes again where he is almost paralyzed in bed. When he finally manages to sit up, he calls Tiffany. He tries not to sound too desperate, but he is beginning to panic. He does not want this to keep happening. 

“I’ll look it up,” is what she says, “but that doesn’t sound familiar in any way to me.” 

“Oh and you’re the expert on transferring human souls, I guess?” he snaps, and immediately regrets it. He apologizes. 

“I’m afraid, Tiff,” he admits quietly. His back is aching so much. He can feel a fever coming on again. “I don’t know the answers and I’m fucking pissing myself right now.” 

“I know,” she replies, and then hangs up, leaving him alone again. He knows she still loves him, and she will try her best, but he also knows that talking to him is still a sore chore for her to do. He lays back down, rubbing his temples and wanting to cry from frustration. He doesn’t. 

Later that evening, when Andy comes home from work, he immediately notices. “You’re acting different today,” he sniffs, eyeing Chucky curiously. “You look different.” 

“You’ve been staring after me long enough to know, haven’t you?” Chucky bites, almost whimpering at the pain just to speak. His jaw feels stiff and tender at the same time. He clenches his teeth and regrets it. Andy just stares at him, not responding with some equally biting  quip for once. He doesn’t say anything more though, and just turns on the television, lighting a joint. 

Chucky goes to bed early. Andy doesn’t ask after him. Which he wouldn’t of course, Chucky knows this. His panic grows. 

The next morning, he feels a little better, but he is still a bit woozy. He gets up and waddles slowly around the kitchen, when suddenly he feels a hot acid rising up his throat. 

A multitude of heaving and retching later, he rushes for the phone as fast as he can with a sore stomach, dialing Tiffany again. She does not pick up this time. He throws the phone across the floor, watching it shatter. The noise causes his ears to ring, and he groans and collapses to his knees on the linoleum. 

He is in bed before Andy comes home. His throat stings and his nose is running. Andy does not come in to check on him, despite the apartment phone still broken on the floor. He is alone in the dark, and he is terrified. He grips the sheets and the small moments of sleep he gets are fitful. 

Things begin to escalate faster after that. Within days, he barely ever leaves the bed, except to painfully run to the toilet, every inch of his body screaming in pain from each move he makes. He thinks he may be dying, and begins to hope he dies soon. 

Tiffany has no way to call now, unless she finds a way to contact Andy. He tosses this thought around a lot, and his anxiety rises. He sleeps less and less. 

He starts to wake to a voice, raspy and pleading. “Please, please, please,” it croaks, high-pitched and desperate. He looks around the room every time, but he never sees anyone. He is going insane. 

He thinks he hears a knock on the door at some point. “Fuck off, Andy!” he screams, even though that is exactly what he does not want to happen. It hurts everything in him to say it. He sweats in bed while shivering. He sees and hears things around him constantly tormenting him. Saying his name. Saying Andy’s name.

He dreams that he is healthy and fine, and wakes to hell each time. He dreams of other things too, but he does not like to think about it. It doesn’t take long before he clings to those dreams, though, them being the only distraction he has from the exponentially growing pain. 

It is a week later, but he does not know it. He is not keeping track of time. It feels like a lifetime. It is a week later when suddenly he’s waking to the raspy voice again, and he realizes it’s him - it’s been him begging some unknown for mercy. 

He should pray to Damballah. But he has no offering, and no way to give it even if he has it. He prays anyways, desperate. Helpless. Lost. 

He prays, and then he is burning, and everything feels as if he is tearing from the inside out, and he is screaming. He couldn’t stop it if he tried, or if he wanted to, and he finds that he doesn’t want to stop anyways. It seems to be the only thing he can do. He is screaming and he is so imbedded in pain that he does not realize that he is crying. 

He is convulsing, and he is screaming for mercy, and none comes. For a fragment of a moment of sanity, he thinks he may be in hell. This is what hell would be like, and it is what he would deserve. 

He is screaming, and he has no idea what he is saying. He is out of his mind. He wants water, he wants to shower, he wants to be able to enjoy walking through the small apartment again, to hunger and to taste food, he wants something - anything. The touch of a human being. The coolness of sheets at night. Anything.

He wants to die. He wants the pain to stop. 

The bedroom door opens, but he doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t hear much at all at first. And then barely, he can hear a voice, calling his name. 

“Please...” he’s hoarse, he’s exhausted from screaming, he’s reaching in the dark. This feels like his last hope. “Please, please - make this end. I’m begging you.” His voice cracks. “Kill me if you have to. Just make it end.” 

Then he’s screaming again.

2

Kristen settles in the bed next to Jess, hair frazzled from work. “I’m not getting up until two, so don’t you dare even think about waking me up before then,” she groans into her pillow. She can hear Jess snickering under her breath before she feels slender fingers finding their way through her curls. 

“You’re not even going to shower, babe? You’d feel better,” Jess chastises her. Kristen shakes her head, feeling Jess’ fingers tangling in her hair. 

“They’re going to get lost in there,” she grunts, and she’s right. One of Jess’ rings catch in a clump of curled tangles, and they’re both giggling, despite Kristen’s exhausted irritation. 

“What’re you still doing up anyways? Surely you weren’t just waiting on me,” Kristen asks when they finally disentangle, peering up at Jess critically. 

Her girlfriend shakes her head, tapping a small book. “You know I’m always awake for you, lady-love, but alas, you’re right. I’m writing our next single for the band. We’re opening for a show in Boston next Friday, and it’s my hometown so I thought I’d do something special.” 

Kristen smiles up at Jess dopily. “That’s so exciting, Jeevie,” she slurs out. It is true; Jess has worked hard and is very talented at what she does, and Kristen believes she deserves the world. But now, she is beyond exhausted from closing at her small cafe, and she yearns for sleep. She yawns heavily. “I love you. Good night.” 

She lays down again and Jess turns off the lights, save for a small desk lamp. She feels the dip of the mattress and Jess’ hand scratching her neck and back gently as her girlfriend settles back down, scribbling away. 

Moments later, her phone vibrates, and it shakes her awake. She ignores it at first, but when it continues to buzz under her stomach, she finally pushes herself up on her elbows, aggravated. 

“Merda, quem é isso - tome no meu cu,” she curses under her breath, and Jess laughs. Kristen wipes her eyes, feeling mascara and eyeliner smear. She should have showered. Shaking the thought away, she blinks at the harsh light of the phone. 

“Oh- it’s Andy,” she murmurs aloud. “I wonder what he wants at this time of night?” 

“He’s finally decided he wants to dick that doll of his down and he needs our help, since we’re totally dicking-down experts,” Jess states, eyes not leaving her page. Kristen gives her a look and shoves her. 

“He’ll never decide that, turd, unless he’s suddenly possessed by his own repression,” she huffs. “We’ll be in walkers swapping fake teeth when that happens.”  

Jess snorts and keeps writing. 

Kristen swipes the phone open, ignoring any of Jess’ further snarky commentary and holding the phone up to her ear. She can feel her eyes closing again already. “Andy?” she croaks into the phone. She can hear a lot of noise in the background, but it’s muffled. “What’s going on? You know it’s like,” she checks her phone screen, “almost three in the morning, right?”

“You’ve gotta help me - I don’t know what to do!” Andy’s panting into the phone, and the last time Kristen had heard him like this, he had been on the bathroom floor, crying his eyes out. Immediately, her maternal instinct comes into the fray, clawing anxiously in her chest. “Please, I- I don’t know what’s happening and I don’t know who else could come...” 

“Okay, okay, I’m coming - you’re not hurt are you?” she asks, alerted to the severity of the mystery situation. She lowers her voice, despite Jess not being entirely naive of their old friends living situation. “Did he kill someone near you?” 

There’s a shuffling sound. She can hear more now. Someone is screaming in the background. She and Jess share a look, and Kristen is already up, throwing her shoes back on. Jess snaps her book shut and jumps out of bed, grabbing the car keys from the chair Kristen had thrown them down on earlier.  

“Andy?” Kristen asks again, panicking. She can not seem to tie her laces fast enough. 

“I’m fine- it’s not - he isn’t hurting anyone,” Andy finally responds again, and she exhales loudly in relief. He sounds worn out. “It’s him. He’s hurting. I don’t know what’s going on - but he won’t stop screaming and... Kristen, he looks terrible... I don’t know what to do.” 

They’re out the door, Jess opening the car and Kristen jumping in beside her. She keeps Andy on the line, asking whatever questions she can think of and assuring him she’s on her way. Jess peers over at her every once in a while, worry crossing her face. 

“Dude - what’s going on over there?” she asks carefully when Kristen hangs up. Kristen just turns to her, wide-eyed and speechless. Jess reaches over to squeeze her hand, feeling the pulse of Kristen’s heartbeat in her palm. Kristen shrugs, the background noises still echoing in her head. 

“I… I don’t know, Jeevie,” she whispers, finally. Then, “He sounds absolutely miserable though.”

She sits back against the chair, trying to focus on the hum of the car. “For once, I won��t mind if you speed through here. Just… get us there…”

She can hear the screaming and crying just outside Andy’s door when they arrive, Jess reassuring her to go on ahead while she parks the car. He’s opening it before she can even knock, eyes wide and red from lack of sleep - or from crying himself, she doesn’t ask. 

“Where is he?” she asks, and he waves his hand weakly, walking back to his guest room, which she supposes is where he has let Chucky stay since their strange arrangement. She has not been here to his apartment in a long time. Not since Chucky had moved in.  

She walks in the room, and she can smell the fever. The vomit. It smells very much like death. 

On the bed, Chucky is convulsing, in a spasm, and upon coming closer to observe, she can see harsh and ugly bruises along all of his joints. His eyes are wrecked, red and bulging with dark circles underneath. His nose and mouth are bleeding, and he’s babbling, only managing a single human word every once in a while. He is the epitome of a mess, as if he were breaking and reforming continuously in a loop, mangled. 

Beforehand, she had been wondering why Andy had even cared. After all, Chucky has his fair share of comeuppance due. She definitely has not changed her mind about him; she still distrusts him and would rather him out of their lives. But this - this is beyond what she would wish on anyone. And looking over at Andy’s tear stricken face (he has been crying, she can see it better now), she can see that he feels the same, conflicted about his heart breaking for someone who he has years of hurt and hatred for. 

He is at his wit’s end, calling her for help. And she does not know what to do either. 

“We can’t- we can’t take him to a doctor right? This isn’t any kind of disease...” Andy is babbling to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jess with a bottle in her hand, coming over to pour Andy a drink and rubbing his shoulder. She smiles, hoping her gratitude to her girlfriend radiates through her demeanor, just happy that she has a partner who has her back. 

“No,” she says finally, looking back at Chucky. His screams have subsided, but merely because he is wearing out. He’s still crying and pleading to no one in particular, gripping at the air with mangled fingers.

“He’s been like this for how long? Just since earlier tonight you said?” she asks. She touches his forehead. He howls from her touch. He is burning. She can see veins pulsating madly just beneath his skin. “

She feels his wrist, gentler this time, but he still whimpers and jerks under her touch. He’s very tender, his skin molds under where her fingers are, and the impression of her touch is still embedded in his wrist when she removes her hand. 

“It looks like... he’s literally growing human parts,” she murmurs after a while in quiet observation, looking up at Andy and Jess in soft awe. “I can see his veins - the blood going through them.” 

She gives Jess a look. “Can you get some water?” she asks. “I want to try something.” 

Jess gives Andy one last comforting squeeze before disappearing. Chucky starts to twist and scream in bed again, his cries growing. Andy’s face contorts, and he lets out a soft whine, covering his face and kneeling over in the chair he’s pushed close to the bed. Kristen puts her arms around him, resting her cheek on his head. 

“I’m sorry this is happening,” she whispers, despite still feeling animosity towards the doll-turning-human. “We’ll figure out what’s wrong- we will. We’ll help him.” 

Jess returns with the water. Kristen lifts Andy’s face. “Can you help me with something?” she asks softly. Andy nods weakly, shaking himself into action. 

“It might hurt him a bit still,” she warns. “But I think - look at him with me.” She points at his skin. “He’s dehydrated. He didn’t need a lot of sustenance before, as the doll, but now that he’s... I don’t know, forming a human body I guess? He needs nutrients. Starting with water.”

She bites her lip. “Maybe,” she adds. She is not entirely sure what he needs. But they have to try. 

She waves at his head. “Lift his head up a bit,” she tells Andy, who is shaking but gingerly cradles Chucky’s head in hands. Chucky cries, begging in pain.  

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” Andy is chanting under his breath. His eyes are watering, his lip quivering. His voice trembles. “We’re trying to take care of you, I promise...” 

Kristen is not as apologetic. She’s more interested in propping his mouth open to pour water in slowly. Chucky seems to  vaguely register what’s going on, swallowing in between moans. He coughs through most of it, but eventually takes all the water down, mouth open and panting in desperate wait for more. 

Kristen turns to Jess. “Get more,” she directs her, holding out the empty cup, “and get a lot of it, please.”

Jess rushes out the door. Kristen puts a hand on Andy’s shoulder, trying to steady him. Chucky still cries, head nestled in Andy’s hands. He is still babbling incoherently, but certain words are coming through: please, hurt, stop, die. And then: Andy. 

Andy looks as if he is going to break when he hears his name. He kneels down weakly, Chucky’s head still in his hands, and puts their foreheads together. 

“I tried,” Andy says softly, almost unheard with Chucky’s sobbing. “I tried to get him to talk to me, to get him to drink, or eat. Everything seems to hurt him.” 

“I know,” Kristen replies, as gently as she can. “He’s going to keep hurting if we don’t push him now though.” 

“But how do you know this is going to work?” 

She doesn’t. “I don’t,” she admits. “But we have to try. It’s better than nothing.” 

Jess returns, water jug and cup in her hands and a look on her face. “There’s someone at the door,” she says, eyes searching Kristen’s face. “Should I... open it?” 

Kristen nods. “Check who it is first,” she says, then takes the water from Jess’ hands. “And check around the kitchen. Look for anything like soup or broth that we can push down his throat.” 

Jess nods, looking as pale and panicked as Kristen feels. But Andy has been dealing with this for hours already, and somebody has to be strong. It looks like it is going to have to be her. She sighs and forces Chucky’s mouth open again, slowly pouring in more water. 

Andy looks up after a while, wide-eyed. “Wait - wait, give him a break,” he pleads, gesturing with his head frantically. “Don’t drown him.” 

Indeed, it looks as if Chucky is struggling to swallow the water. Kristen blanches, and puts the water down to pull Chucky’s limp body up. 

It’s a serious mistake. It’s as if Chucky is literal putty in her hands, and if they’d thought his screams were loud before, they are insane in that moment. 

Kristen and Andy share a horrified look. “He doesn’t have any...?” Kristen starts, alarmed.

“Bones, no. Well not really yet, anyways,” a voice, low and smooth, interrupts. Andy and Kristen turn to see Jess at the doorway, with another woman by her side. Her coat is pulled tightly around her, and she is already tying her hair back, ready for work.

“Ms. Valentine?” Andy barely gasps out, immediately recognizing her. 

3

Tiffany looks at the scene before her, bracing herself for how long the night is about to be. 

Chucky, head nestled against Andy’s chest at this point. A young woman with dark curly hair and wild eyes, with a cup of water in one hand, and Chucky’s arm in another. The woman next to her who had let her in, a box of broth in her hands. Everyone looks about as lost as she feels.

She sighs and adjusts the books in her arms. “I brought the twins,” she announces to Andy, who nods numbly. He looks worn out. 

“That’s fine,” he rasps. His hands are threaded in Chucky’s hair, she notes, but she doesn’t say anything about the sudden unexpected intimacy. She just holds her itching smile and approaches them. 

“Here’s the broth,” the taller girl says, holding out the box. The curly haired one stares at her in disbelief. 

“Well, warm it up, babe!” she says, a bit exasperated. “I might hate the guy but I’m not a complete bitch.” 

The girl behind her stifles some kind of snort, and then she’s gone. Tiffany watches in amusement as the curly haired girl continues to gently pour water in Chucky’s mouth. If it weren’t such a dire situation, Tiffany would find it all rather endearing.

“You were on the right track,” she reassures, in an attempt to alleviate the terseness and anxiety in the room. “He is turning human- so now he does have human needs.” 

The girl looks at her in relief. “What’s your name?” Tiffany asks, curious. She seems to have a strong head on her shoulders, fiercely independent and confident despite the situation. Almost as if she innately knew what needed to be done in the moment. Tiffany finds herself drawn to her almost immediately, despite knowing little to nothing about her. 

“Kristen,” the girl sighs out. She finishes giving Chucky water and lets him relax back in Andy’s hands. “And you’re Tiffany, right? Andy’s mentioned you before.” 

Tiffany nods. Kristen grins half heartedly. “Sorry we’re meeting like this,” she says, gesturing to everything around them. “It’s not how I expected to be introduced to you.” 

At this, Tiffany shrugs. There’s not much they can do about it now. There’s no helping the situation. She places a hand against Chucky’s neck, and he moans, tossing a bit and almost trying to sink into Andy’s hands. 

“You dramatic little bitch,” she teases, but her voice is tense. Then she looks at Kristen. “He’s burning up. You were smart to give him water. But unfortunately, from what information I gathered, we can only try to make the process easier. We can’t speed it up. He will be in pain until it is over. In fact, right now is the hardest part, if my understanding of the text is correct.” 

“So how long will he be like this?” Andy asks. Tiffany had almost forgotten he was there, he had been so quiet. His head rests on the pillow next to Chucky, hands still cradling him as if he were the most fragile thing in the world. Given the situation, he probably is currently. She gives him a sympathetic glance. 

“I’m not sure - it was a little unclear,” she admits. Andy’s eyes fall, and he seems to forget himself, pushing his nose against Chucky’s ear, eyes screwed shut. It pains him, she can tell. She’s not sure if it is because he truly cares about Chucky now for some reason, or because they’re all facing this storm together. Either way, he is hurting, and it almost appears instinctual, the way he grabs for Chucky in the same way he probably had when he was younger. 

The other girl returns, bowl in hand. “It’s not too hot,” she says, and Kristen holds out her hands for it. 

“Alright, lets see how you do with this,” she mutters, taking a spoonful of the broth. “Andy, lift his head again.” 

Chucky’s still crying and moaning, but it seems that for now, the pain has subsided. His voice is smaller and weaker, and he seems fine enough to have his head lifted when Andy positions himself just right so that Chucky is leaning against him. His eyes are opening, but it doesn’t appear that he is recognizing that there are people in front of him. Tiffany can see the glassy shine in his eyes; he has the look of someone who, mentally, is very far removed from the current world around them. 

Kristen pulls his jaw down again, tilting the spoon into his mouth. “There,” she asserts, a little self-satisfied. Tiffany is slightly amused at her almost calloused way of handling him, despite feeling a bit guilty about taking pleasure in it. “And if it doesn’t bother him, we’ll give him some more.” 

The girl behind Tiffany grins. “He seems a little, well, not so tortured now,” she finally settles on. 

It is indeed hard to describe. Now that he is calmed a bit, Tiffany can see his bruises and swelling all over his body, and the dried blood from his nose. It seems the blood and mucus is coagulating around his nose and mouth. She can see the trail going down his chin and neck, staining his shirt. 

“Poor little thing,” she muses aloud. She turns to Kristen. “We should clean him up, don’t you think?” 

Kristen nods. “Jeevie, come help me find some stuff to clean him up with,” she says to the other girl, who is quick to take her side. 

“Do you need me to help?” Andy asks. Kristen begins to speak, but Tiffany responds first. 

“I think you’re helping a lot actually, just by being right where you are,” she says, her tone insinuating something behind her words. She doesn’t know Kristen or this Jeevie at all, but the look the three of them share feels as if they could communicate like old friends would. She wonders if they see what she sees, if they know what she’s known. If they’ve been friends with Andy or Chucky long, she can’t imagine they wouldn’t already be aware.

When they walk out in the hallway, her two twins are eyeing them worriedly, Glenda more than Glen. Glenda twists their hair anxiously around their finger. Tiffany had almost forgotten she had brought them here, and is surprised that they hadn’t run into the room earlier. She walks towards them, putting a hand on their shoulder. 

“Is Dad okay?” Glenda asks, their eyes a pure storm. 

Tiffany doesn’t know how to respond. She doesn’t want to frighten her children, but she also doesn’t want to lie to them. They have had enough lies in their life for her to bear to add anymore. 

“Hey, you guys like dominoes?” Jeevie’s voice cuts in, throwing everything for a loop. She kisses Kristen and gives her a comforting squeeze before approaching Tiffany’s children with ease. “Why don’t we go to the kitchen and play a round?” 

The twins seem significantly calmed and satisfied for the distraction, already clambering after this intriguing woman with tons of questions. “Did those piercings hurt?” Glenda asks, already reaching to touch Jeevie’s ear. The woman leans down with a grin so Glenda can reach. “Not much - just a pinch,” she replies, and Tiffany knows that Glenda will be begging for piercings like those later. She heaves a sigh of relief. A little more time to get a better idea of Chucky’s situation. 

She follows Kristen through Andy’s apartment, helping her gather things they might need. Kristen is stone silent. Tiffany can tell there is a lot on her mind. She has already observed a little bit about her - that she is one of Andy’s dearest friends, that she is strong willed, and most importantly, that she harbors an animosity for Chucky. Understandably, Tiffany thinks to herself, as she has the same feelings sometimes towards her ex-husband. Doing this must be hard for her as well- to care for someone she wishes was not even here to begin with. 

“It’s very kind of you to help him,” Tiffany instigates carefully, trying to be subtle. Kristen gives a small grin, but Tiffany can feel it. There’s something underneath, dark and powerful, twisting and growling. Something ancient.

Chucky has told her before that this girl Kristen intimidates him. She feels it a little bit when they lock eyes. There’s something about her she can’t place, but it makes her fear to make the wrong step. 

“To be honest, I’m only doing it because I’m helping Andy,” Kristen murmurs, and her face twists. The conflict is written throughout her expression. She pauses, as if debating if she should continue. For a brief moment, Tiffany feels as if a storm is about to crash through them, from just a twitch of Kristen’s fingertips. 

“Listen, I know he was like, your lover and all, but I’m sorry - I don’t... I don’t like this situation at all. I don’t trust him.” 

Tiffany folds up some towels she’s found. “You’re talking to someone who had to deal with his shit for years,” she responds. The air changes. It’s crazy how she seems to feel that just from this girl’s demeanor. “I hope you can trust me when I say, I find it hard to trust him too. I find it hard to like him some days.” 

Andy seems intimidated by her too, she noticed, and they have been friends for a while now. She wonders what it is, what hides underneath this girl. She doesn’t do anything particularly violent, and that is observable now. She has every right and opportunity to smite Chucky and say it is for Andy’s good - which if very well might be - and yet, she does not. It’s something within and around her, something almost electric. 

Tiffany wonders if Kristen even realizes this, her power. Her influence. It’s more than likely that she does not. 

Kristen seems to calm around her though, and she wonders what she has done to so quickly gain favor. All she said was words - this girl has no way to know how much she means them. “I guess you’re right,” Kristen concedes. She picks some rags out of the hallway closet. “I just - I know that it’s hurting Andy, for some crazy reason, to see him like this. And I don’t want Andy to be hurt.”

She sounds a little bitter. “He’s had enough pain,” she adds. Tiffany can only nod dryly, knowing now is not the moment to pry. Especially with another more pressing task at hand. 

“Well, then,” she replies, shaking the invisible weight from around her shoulders. “I guess we better get to it. How about this: I’ll explain everything that I know, and then we help Andy find a routine to follow during this process?” 

4

Andy is, to say the least, sick and panicking. 

He should have come in to check on him earlier. That’s all he can think about. He should have come in sooner, despite their awkward and tense relationship. The first time he heard the slightest moaning, he should have come to see what was going on. Hell, he should have come in when he started seeing less of Chucky. It hadn’t been normal for him to not be around, but he had chalked it up to him being out and about for some reason. He should have known better. He should have known better. 

Chucky whimpers, face scrunching in pain. Andy can see just from his posture that he’s worn out from crying and convulsing, but his body moves on its own. At the moment, Chucky is a slave to the process. They can only hope for mercy throughout it.

“I don’t know what to do, buddy,” he croaks out, and for a brief moment he thinks that this is the first time in a long time he’s spoken so casually with Chucky. But the thought is quickly overtaken by his worry again. He slides further up on the bed, now only half sitting in the chair. “I don’t know how to make you stop hurting so much.” 

“I can’t make the pain go away,” he stutters out, and his eyes are watering, and he’s tired and dizzy. And this is beyond pain that anyone should go through, right? Surely this is why he hurts so much for the man near him. Otherwise, he would not care so much. 

Otherwise, he would say this is what Chucky deserves and leave it at that. 

But deep down, logically, he knows that technically Chucky deserves this, and yet, he can’t help but feel all kinds of heartbroken about it. He tries not to focus too much on this though, and instead burrows deeper into the pillow. Chucky immediately turns into him, his cries growing again. His hands twitch, as if he is trying to clench his hands around Andy’s shirt, but there is hardly any movement; it is merely the attempt. 

“Andy...” Chucky is whimpering, eyes open, looking right at him. Andy doesn’t know if he really sees him or not, but he’s looking at him - tear stained face, bruised and bloodied. “Andy, please...” 

“I wish I could, I’m sorry!” Andy gasps out. He doesn’t know why he feels guilty. He didn’t bring this on him, and he doesn’t have the power to stop it. But oh, how he wishes he could. It seems a never-ending nightmare. There is a strange crunching sound that makes his ears curl, and Chucky is screaming again, body contorting helplessly. 

Kristen and Tiffany appear then, and not a moment too soon, he thinks. 

“I can’t,” he wheezes out to them, falling apart. He feels as if he is going to explode into tears. “He’s screaming my name and begging me for something I can’t give... I... I can’t! I’m not strong enough...” 

Kristen is shaking him. “Stop, stop Andy,” she hushes him. “It’s not your fault, it’s not. He’s in a lot of pain, and you’re here, that’s all.” She presses her forehead against his, and he tries to focus on her breathing. His grip is still on Chucky, who’s now buried into his chest, still sobbing uncontrollably. “You’re just going to have to be here for him. It’s all you can do.” 

She leans back, holding out a wet cloth. “It’s all we can do.” She’s grimacing, and he knows why. He knows she doesn’t like Chucky in the least bit, and it pains her that he is so pained by Chucky’s suffering. He wonders if she would care at all, if she were in his place. He finds himself defensive for Chucky suddenly, and almost laughs at how crazy he is. How crazy he’s become. He blames it on the lack of sleep and the events before them. 

“Go on, Andy, it’s alright,” Kristen is coaxing him. She ushers the cloth again in his direction. “Wipe him up a bit, now. The rag is warm. Do it before it gets cold.” 

Andy twists inside. Moving Chucky in anyway is only going to hurt him, but as Kristen and Tiffany have both mentioned, he will hurt either way. He takes the rag and begins to wipe Chucky’s face and neck, trying not to let his screams discourage him. 

Tears are forming in the corners of his eyes. This time, he lets them come. He cleans the blood away, and the dried vomit from the corners of Chucky’s mouth, and he cries. 

When Kristen and Tiffany leave him in the room, alone with Chucky, he doesn’t notice. He slides himself completely in the bed next to him, tossing the dirtied rag to the ground. He encases Chucky in his arms, holding him as he trembles violently. The crunching noises continue, a strange crushing and breaking sound. Chucky’s face is pressed against his shirt, screaming into it as if his life depends on it. Perhaps it does, he wouldn’t know. 

Holding him tightly seems to help the convulsing, though, and he tries not to lose himself as he watches more bruises from and grow. He shuts his eyes and tucks Chucky into him, murmuring whatever comforting things he can. Hoping that he can hear any of it.

When Kristen returns, he is falling asleep, and wakes to her tucking them in together. He almost feels ashamed that she is having to mother over them when he is not in nearly as much pain as Chucky is, but his attention is still concentrated on the way Chucky’s cries grow and subside, and on how he can ease him in some way. 

“Here,” Kristen yawns out. Her hair is a mess. Her eyes are bloodshot. Andy sits up slowly, arm still around Chucky, who is clinging to his shirt hoarsely weeping. He puts a hand on her arm. 

“Thank you for, uh… for everything,” Andy whispers, eyes downcast, sheepish. “I know you couldn’t care less if he rots or not - so I know this is for me. I’m sorry...” 

Kristen makes a face. “You’re right, I don’t like him,” she starts stiffly, crossing her arms. “But…” her expression softens, “...this is insane. I can’t watch a person in torment like this either, regardless.” She flinches as Chucky howls, screaming again. She hands Andy a piece of paper. 

“Listen, I have to open in the morning, and Jeevie has to meet up with her band. I think Tiffany is going to stay for tonight, but I think she’s leaving in the morning,” she says. Andy takes the sheet and opens it, seeing Kristen’s neat handwriting. It is a drawn out regimen of sorts, with times and descriptions and explanations. 

“It’s a list, for you...” she explains, as his eyes peruse the words. “...while we’re gone. I know I can be back around tomorrow afternoon, but until then… just something for you to follow. We don’t think it will make this process any kinder for him, but we’re pretty sure he won’t die.”

Andy pales at this. “You’re pretty sure?” he asks faintly, already tightening his grip subconsciously. His heart rate increases, panic flashing through him. Kristen gives him a sad squeeze on his shoulder, and there is genuine pain in her eyes. 

“Just take care of him as best as you can,” she says, watching him for a moment. Watching them. It looks as if she wants to say more, but does not, instead merely adding, “You can’t control everything.” 

Almost as if on cue, Chucky is writhing again, and Andy steadies him, holding him still. His grip controls Chucky’s movement, calming the convulsions. Chucky does not cry as loud this time, and Andy likes to think he has helped in a small way. At least this way, with Chucky’s body imprisoned in his embrace, he does not shake so violently.

 “Yeah,” he murmurs, smiling softly up at Kristen. “I’ll just do my best.” 

He can feel the crumpled up paper in his hand from where he had been clenching. He had not realized. Chucky quivers against him, but other than this, things are unexpectedly calm. Kristen inhales sharply, but holds her tongue from whatever it is she is going to say. She leans in to give him a hug, and then she is gone again, leaving the door open only a crack. 

He turns his face onto the pillow. Chucky is bleeding again; this time, also from his ears. He is blubbering and twisting. Andy sighs heavily, heart in his throat, and pulls Chucky’s already ruined shirt off slowly, carefully. Wincing through his hoarse and weakened screaming. He wipes at the blood with his shirt, tossing it on the floor as it subsides.

“I’ll do my best,” he whispers to him, pulling him close again, even as he drools and his nose runs against his neck.

5

It is unbearable. He feels barely sane, consciousness hanging only by a thread. He does not have the energy to speak, but screams against his will anyways, when they grow inside him. The bones of his victims. He feels their creeping hands underneath his skin, sharp and cracking. Tearing him open against his will. It does not end either, pausing only for a brief heartbeat and then starting again. 

He feels when hands bandage him. Tiffany? He thought he’d heard her voice. But he hears many voices, and it is hard to tell what is in his head and what is in the world above him, so seemingly far away. Whoever it is, they wrapped him tightly, and now it is harder for the bones to take him so much. It still hurts, but the growling has subsided. He knows he will not be able to escape it for long. 

If Andy were dead, would his bones be here too, clawing at him until he burst? 

“I’m sorry...” he wails, when the pain grows again. His tongue is dry again. He had felt the presence of Ayida-Weddo, her stern but merciful face granting him water while he burned. He felt her hands forcing him up from the dead, dragging him out of his fiery misery, and for a moment, the crisp freshness of the water rushing through him gave him hope. But then she was gone, and the hope went with her. 

His fever is rising again. He feels as if he is suffocating. Someone wraps him tightly again, and he realizes he had been shaking once more, the growth on the move. His fingers are twitching, and he can move them at last, gripping onto whatever he can. He can feel smooth fabric; and to feel anything other than immense pain is wave of relief. The fever still rages, but he clutches the cloth, sobbing and clinging to this one piece of salvation.

“Help…” he barely makes out. His jaw and teeth cut through his gums. “Please… saveme…” 

Cool hands are touching his face, pulling him up, and he grits his teeth through the pain, still whining at it despite his efforts. He can feel arms around him now, his skin prickling at every sensation, both painful and wonderful. 

Something brushes at his lips again, and he feels water once more. He turns to look for Ayida, but she is not there. 

He does not look too long though, as he is parched and desperate for anything. The water slides down his throat, thick and cool, and he feels it spreading through his entire body. His body falls against a soft cushioned surface as he drinks, the water never enough even as it comes. His cheek is malleable; he can feel it molding to the surface it is on. He does not know what this means. It does not seem to hurt the way he hurts on the inside, the cracking and stretching continuing. 

“It’s going to be fine,” he hears, barely. The voice is soft. He has to attune his ears towards it, focusing only on it. He wants to believe what it is saying is true. “Everything is going to be alright.” 

He feels something being urged into his mouth again. Warm. Filling. Some sort of sustenance; he cannot tell what it is. He takes it anyways, just hoping it will help in any small way. There is someone holding him; he is sure of it now. Supporting him as he swallows. He is still overheating, but the warmth from the arms around him is still cozy and welcomed. Penetrating despite the overwhelming pain he still feels. 

“This should help,” he hears. He knows for sure it is not Ayida now. It is a man’s voice. But it is not Damballah either; when he looks up he only sees wings and the brightest lights. At times, Damballah comes in the form of a serpent, but he does not feel the scales of a snake. He feels human hands, human skin, human clothes - all brushing against him. 

An angel, he thinks. But the Loa are not angels. Perhaps they have sent someone for him, and heard his prayers after all. He does not know what he has done to deserve it, but the gratitude that grows inside him is immense. If he ever truly escapes this perdition, he will be in a deep debt. He wants to thank this angel of mercy who holds him now, gently nursing him to health, but he does not know his name, nor can he see his face. And his pain grows again, and he is once again rendered mute by his involuntary crying. So he clings to him and weeps, and hopes the message is translated.  

When the angel’s wings close around him, he wants to believe it is. 

This does not mean that suddenly he is graced with all of his pain taken away, unfortunately for him. A sudden burning acid rises up within him, and he retches out everything that had just been put in him. Fear, an intense biting fear, grows and stretches. He has dirtied the angel. His one ticket out of this pestilence he is suffering from, and he has greatly disrespected him. He has soiled him with everything contemptible and depraved from inside himself. Surely, he will be left behind now. He is doomed to this anguish of his own design - trapped in his deserved Gehenna. If the Loa have sent him this angel as a last chance, he has ruined it now, and they will assure his reincarnation is nothing but despair. 

He can feel the bones rattling again, and the voices grow, screaming, howling. Signaling his impending doom. He has never cried so much in his entire life; ironically, it is as if every tear he had never shed and should have are ripped from him now, and he is heaving sobs, eyes dry but voice wet with sorrow.                            

“I’m sorry…!” he wheezes out. But the angel is gone, and he is alone again, surrounded by only his suffering.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

He cries out anyways, just in case. He cries out because his life depends on it. 

6

Andy did not want to leave him, especially not after hearing the way he was crying after him, voice so broken, a fawn left alone in a harrowing forest. But his shirt is ruined, and Chucky is a mess. He has to find a way to clean them both up. This is an absolute misery. 

He looks at the list Kristen had left him, and he does not see bath listed anywhere. But the smell is becoming too much, and even if Chucky is too far gone as of now to smell it, Andy is not. It reeks. He has to rid himself of it before he goes insane himself. 

Tiffany is still in the kitchen, hands around a steaming mug. She perks up as soon as she recognizes him in front of her, her eyes full of questions. “I assume the little shit is still in pain?” she asks, joking weakly. Chucky’s crying does not come through the walls for Tiffany to hear them, but Andy feels as if the sounds surrounds him, still echoing in his mind. He nods, and Tiffany puts a hand on his arm. 

“The kids are asleep,” she says, and gestures her head down the hall. “I let them sleep in your bed; I hope you don’t mind. Your friend Kristen said it was alright.” 

Andy doesn’t respond to this. It is perfectly fine, of course, but his mind is away on other things. “We have to clean…” he starts, then waves helplessly towards where he’d left the room. “Just… all of it. Everything.” 

Tiffany grimaces. “You want to do that now?” she questions, her face twisting. “How does he look? Does he seem like he can move at all?”

“He’s starting to,” Andy replies, thinking. Chucky really hadn’t been moving much, but he seemed more solid in his arms just before he’d let him go. “He was gripping my shirt like … I don’t know. Like I was pulling him out of perdition.” 

At this, Tiffany snorts. “You probably were,” she muses, before shaking whatever thoughts she had away. “Well, if he’s able to hold onto you, he has to be forming some kind of skeletal structure, so I can’t see why we can’t at least try it. I’ve got to leave with the kids; it’ll be Monday and I’ve got to send them to school, but I’ll help you out this first time, just so we can see what it’s like.” 

Andy sighs in relief, knowing for at least a little while longer, he won’t be entirely alone in this strange journey. Tiffany pushes her mug aside and rolls up her sleeves, leading the way as Andy stumbles behind her, awkward and unsure, and into the dark they go, where Chucky is as miserable as he has been, still beside himself. 

Tiffany wrinkles her nose. “You weren’t kidding - he smells like he’s been dead for days,” she manages between coughs. She flips the light on, taking in the damage, before sighing and rubbing at her face. Andy can see lines of anxiety slowly carving into her forehead and corners of her mouth. As much as she appeared to know, it is clear she is just about as lost as he is in this situation. 

Andy moves before she does, unbedding Chucky from the comforter and sheets, which are ruined with blood and sweat and other unmentionable excretions. Chucky is already thrashing about, almost as if attempting to force his body upwards. It is to no avail, as it is apparent his body is still molding into a solid structure of any sort. He collapses back again, but Andy has caught him and lifted him from the bed, holding his limp body out towards Tiffany. He waits for her approval to move forward. 

“My angel…You, Pitya, Pitya, I’m sorry - I’m so-sorry,” Chucky is gasping, hands already clutching at Andy’s shirt. 

Tiffany’s green eyes are sharp on him, and Andy exhales heavily. “He’s been saying crazy stuff like this since last night,” he explains, gently shrugging Chucky onto his shoulder. Tiffany moves to fold up the sheets and comforter on the bed, switching between fascinated and downright disgusted. 

At her ambiguous expression, Andy feels himself growing uncomfortable and itchy just under his skin. “I- I assumed it was some kind of Voodoo thing…?” he stammers out finally. 

Tiffany snorts at this. “There are no such things as angels, really, at least not in how we practice Voodoo,” she starts, then hums under her breath thoughtfully, mood changing swiftly. She hoists up the sheets and blankets in her arms, face crumpling at the smell. “He is muttering something in Haitian, though, so we can only assume there is some kind of connection there.”

And he is, babbling just one word, over and over- pitya, pitya. And then, angel, my angel. He cannot make out enough words for anything he says to make sense, but Andy feels a rising anxiety screaming at the core of his Adam’s apple. He has to bite his lip to make sure he is not actually screaming himself. He turns towards Tiffany, to ask for assistance, for guidance, but she has already traipsed out of the room, muttering to herself and leaving a scented trail of Virginia Slims behind her. 

                                                         He is left again, with Chucky folded in his arms, and on the precipice of panic. 

He should have filled the tub first. He should have prepared ahead of time. Now he has Chucky again, and his arms are tied and Tiffany seems uninterested in participating. He cannot even call Kristen - although he is not entirely sure she would be gentle. He has a sinking suspicion she would not be. Kristen has had the hunger to tear Chucky apart since she first knew he was in the apartment with him. He has heard it rattle from her tongue. The desire to eradicate him. 

He does not blame her. He knows his compassion - his pity - is otherworldly. It is alien.  A foreign language even to himself. But he speaks it anyways, carrying a dripping, molding, poor excuse for a body into his dimly lit bathroom, dropping to his knees, ushering Chucky into the tub, removing his soiled clothing. Trying not to let the maddening rise and fall of his sobbing drive him away. 

He tosses the clothes away, and now he can truly see underneath Chucky’s skin, the layered bruising and bloodiness of what Tiffany and Kristen had accurately guessed as the formation of bones. He can eye out a rib cage, a sternum, the hints of a pelvis. What is the most striking is how contorted it all is still; the femur and fibula in particular, almost as if they want to protrude right through the skin and grow eternally. He sucks in a deep breath and tries not to drown, and turns on the water. 

Slobbering, Chucky is still moaning for him - or for whoever Pitya is. Andy wonders if his sould is in Hell, and he is wandering back to them. He probably would have never been one to believe in the supernatural if it were not for his childhood with this very same person. But it is hard to imagine what else was occurring deep down, for Chucky to be saying what he says. It is as if prayers of a most fervent kind are falling from his mouth, and Chucky is not a begging man.

The water is already dark. He sighs and drains the tub, and tries again. Chucky seems to calm when the water touches his skin, thanking him. Making promises that he suspects are empty, but perhaps they are not. He does not know. It doesn’t matter much anyways, he is here nonetheless, to get the job done. He cups warm water and wipes at Chucky’s face, seeing his where his past scars have reopened. He supposes he will have to tend to the wounds as well, following this. 

“What do you want? I’ll give you anything.” 

It is the first complete sentence he has spoken in a while, and his voice is slurred. Andy, out of a morbid curiosity, nudges his upper lip up with his index finger and sees his gums, his teeth. Still inflamed, but not bleeding. He gently hoists Chucky up on one arm and wedges his mouth open, prying and feeling. His tongue is lacerated, possibly from him biting it in his agony, and he can see that even there, it will need stitching. 

Chucky whines, and Andy removes his fingers quickly, hot. He should not have done that. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He could have made things worse. 

“I’m sorry,” he stutters out. 

“It hurts,” Chucky whimpers. 

“I’m sorry,” Andy says again. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.” He’s flushed, and he feels like an idiot. He grabs a washcloth off the bar and fights with his soap before lathering the dirt and blood away, watching it pool into the water. Chucky hisses every time he rubs at any tender blossoming muscle, so it is an encore of apologies and soft cries. Andy does not realize how tense he is until he speaks again, and his jaw unclenches. 

“Let’s get you dry,” he murmurs. He wants to feel relief at how Chucky seems to have finally passed through the valley, but he is afraid that it will only start again soon. The stench of Chucky’s clothes still poison the air. He decides to leave it for now. 

He lifts Chucky from the tub, forgetting to drain it this time. Not worrying. Trying not to worry about anything. Chucky shivers and soaks his clothes, sputtering. Andy walks by the guest room, and never thinks twice, letting his goose-prickled naked body down on his own bed instead, trying not to think too much about it. He pries Chucky’s fingers off of his sleeve before hunting down a towel, drying him up. Seeing his fingertips pruned like true human skin. 

And then Chucky blinks at him as if seeing him for the first time. 

7

“Andy?” Chucky chokes out, a wellspring in his throat. He is aching, he is spent, he feels as if every part of his body has been mutilated, but for once, the cracking and piercing and moaning has stopped. There is a hushing silence as Andy stares back at him, rounded hazel eyes doused in exhaustion. As if he had walked there with him in the shadows, and ripped him from it and brought him back home.

Home. He has begun to call Andy’s apartment home too many times now. But after what he has just been through, this does not frighten him as much as it used to. 

Andy dabs at him with a towel, and suddenly he realizes that for the first time in what felt like a century, he feels cold. There is no burning from within, no brink of death conundrum. Just very human hunger, thirst, tiredness, cold. 

He cries, but for the first time it is of sheer relief. He cries and he clings to Andy’s shirt, sobbing in gratitude, thanking Damballah, thanking Pitya, thanking Andy. He feels Andy awkwardly putting his arms around him and rubbing his back, but the warmth of a human is more welcomed than he’d ever imagined it could be. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Andy murmurs, and he believes it. “You’re going to be okay now. It’s over - I think.” 

Chucky shivers and sneezes in Andy’s arms, and it tears in his ribs, but nothing more happens, other than his low groaning and runny nose. He knows for sure he has some sort of fever, and there is still a nausea grumbling at the pit of his stomach, but for the most part, he feels it is over. Perhaps. He sees a light at the end of the tunnel. 

“I don’t have any other clothes for you…” Andy is muttering, up and now digging through his drawers. Chucky feels an odd tingling just beneath his skin. A phantom itching. Andy turns with a t-shirt, coughing awkwardly.

“I guess we’ll have to stitch all these up first,” he continues, gently plopping down on the bed next to him, touching his scars. Chucky shivers again, a little less from the cold, a little more from the pain and intrusion. Andy winces apologetically. “It’s going to hurt though.”

Chucky laughs until he coughs up blood, and Andy is wiping away at the corners of his mouth. 

“D… don’t tell Tiffany about this, okay?” he finally sputters out, gesturing to all of him. Andy grimaces. 

“She’s already been here, through the worst of it,” he admits. He’s back to shuffling around in his room, returning with a sewing kit. Chucky leans back against the pillows moaning in a low pain. It is a relief when it is not as strong as everything he had felt. Andy snags a bottle off the table and takes a large swig. 

“So my hands don’t shake,” he explains. Chucky just watches, a little amazed that this is something Andy seems to understand. He shouldn’t be surprised, he supposes, considering that Andy has had to patch himself up before. Andy is threading the needle, and Chucky finds himself wondering just how far Andy had gone for him. How much had he cared for him while he was away? 

His heart flips. He swallows. It’s hard to do. Andy lightly taps his fingers against the first scarring that has split open, starting from the inner side of his ankle and climbing up his leg. He’s looking at Chucky with the most tender expression in his eyes, and Chucky cannot quite fathom the reason why until Andy threads the first stitch and he inhales sharply, wincing. 

“Oh - you’ll probably want this too. I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it before,” Andy says suddenly, handing him the bottle he had just drank from. Chucky feels an eternity of gratitude, and he feels as if he owes Andy a very deep blood debt. Even more so now than before, when he’d awoken to life again with Andy Barclay - of all people - by his side.

Andy’s fingers are very dexterous, carefully pulling tiny stitches through his skin, over and over again. Chucky cannot stop his skin from humming every time Andy touches him somewhere. His gentleness is appalling. The thread appears delicate compared to the work he’d had done on him before, and as much as it hurts, he is drunk and fascinated enough to keep watching. He can clearly see them still, but they are not as pronounced and loud. 

Quite the opposite of Tiffany’s work, although he was sure she had just been eager to put him back together after years alone in search for him. Back when their lust was high and the nights seemed forever. He can still remember the first time he saw her face when she brought him to life, glowing in the candles of their old trailer home, and he smiles wistfully. 

“You gonna ask me to marry you yet?” Chucky chuckles out, lost in memory. Andy flushes and gives him a perplexed look. 

“What?” he asks. 

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t a good joke to make aloud. Andy would have had no context to it. Chucky just coughs awkwardly and takes another swig. “Nothing, nevermind…” he mutters, looking away, cheeks heated. He is fully human now and he can feel everything. He thinks he might hate it. He can feel shame again, pooling through his veins, to the point he worries a stitch will pop loose again. 

Andy pricks a wound in his lower stomach, and the pain shocks him. He grunts and chews his lip, shaking hands grasping for the bottle again. The needle squelches through his skin and pinches and stings. God does it sting. The thread is just as intrusive and cruel. He whimpers and clutches at Andy’s sleeve, panting, and whimpers again as he continues the sutures. 

“Just breathe, just breathe,” Andy coos softly, and Chucky doesn’t know if he is talking to him or to himself. Andy pauses his threadwork for a brief moment, and cups his cheek - although Chucky does not know why. They have never been remotely close to being kind to one another, and Andy is behaving in an exceptionally tender manner. Their eyes connect too long, and Chucky tears his gaze away. 

“Just… just get it over with, kid,” he grunts out, stuffing his hand into his mouth when the next stitch goes in. 

“It’s almost over with,” Andy responds, and the tone of his voice is a soothing distraction from each prickling jab of the needle. “This one will hurt the most, but it’s almost over, I promise. Just breathe.” 

Chucky rolls his eyes. It’s cliche; he feels as if he is on a poorly produced telenovela where he’s a patient with amnesia and an attractive doctor is nursing him back to health. The kind of show Tiffany would get him drunk to watch with her, despite him giving out biting remarks every couple of minutes, until she got aggravated and shooed him away. But here he is, and he feels safe - with his worst human enemy, of all people. He feels safe and weak and he wants to lie down, but he is still a bit damp and unclothed, and Andy is still stitching him back together again. 

After a grueling couple of hours, Andy has finally finished most of the sutures, and he’s looking over his handiwork, and Chucky follows his eyes, feeling cold and exposed. Andy touches his stitching, presumably checking to see if everything is tight and sturdy enough so that his wounds will heal, but his calloused fingertips brushing against his skin leaves behind a trail of lightning, and Chucky quivers despite himself, exhaling sharply. 

“I’m sorry… you’re probably freezing,” Andy whispers, gathering up one of the t-shirts he’d taken out of his drawers from earlier. He’s already dressing him despite Chucky’s protests, tugging the shirt over his head and pulling his arms through the sleeves. 

“I can do this myself, you know,” he near growls. But his heart is pounding fast. Too fast. 

“I don’t want you to tear your stitches,” Andy says to him, and there’s that look again. As if Andy sees him as some wounded baby animal. Chucky wonders just how he was behaving, when he was being rebirthed like some kind of caterpillar to butterfly, to make Andy behave like this around him so suddenly. 

“Or some kind of moth, more like,” he mutters aloud, amused.

And then Andy is giving him that look again, as if he’s lost his mind. He probably has. He knows he can’t be blamed though, all things considered. 

Andy is tapping his nose, and he’s shivering at his touch again. He doesn’t understand it. He blames it on the fact he is fully human, finally, and every sensation feels like fire. He wonders if this is what newborn babies feel like, sending everything for the first time, and as he tears up yet again, thinks that must be so. That must be why babies cry so much. Everything is so intense. 

“This one shouldn’t hurt as much, but it will still be uncomfortable,” Andy explains, as he’s threading another needle, and Chucky realizes he had forgotten his face. His ruined, beyond repairable face. He chuckles bitterly, choking back the disappointed and despairing sobs. He truly is an eyesore, he’s sure. His ugly sins have made their way to the top, for all to see. This is his comeuppance. 

Then the needle pokes into the skin on his face, and he screws his eyes shut, breathing heavily. He knows he is tearing up, but he focuses more on not making any noise. He has been through hell and back, he can handle this. Surely. 

Andy wipes his tears away with his thumb, and for some reason, that makes him want to break down more than the needle piercing back and forth through delicate, hyper-sensitive skin. Everything is so bizarre. He wants to find counsel in Damballah. He does not understand anything right now. 

“Last one,” Andy says, and he looks vaguely uncomfortable when Chucky looks at him. He doesn’t know why. If anyone should be uncomfortable if should be himself. He is the one in someone else’s home, wearing someone else’s clothes, letting someone else touch him and care for him and nurse him to health. And that someone else is his - claimed - worst enemy. 

Andy shifts awkwardly, and Chucky watches his hair fall over his eyes. Has Andy not cut his hair during this whole time? His beard is thick too. He has the appearance of a savage forest animal; a bear awoken from a winter’s slumber. He’s fumbling with the needle; these same hands that have hurt him and maimed him in the past are here now, mending and caressing. From tough to tender. 

What happened? he wants to ask. But his tongue hurts so much to move it, and he feels it bleeding still. What did I say that made the whole fucking world spin backwards suddenly? 

“I… you’re gonna need to give me your tongue,” Andy coughs out, scratching the back of his neck. Chucky blanches, mid-thought, mind screeching to a halt. 

“You’re… we really gotta do that too?” he finally croaks out. It’s not just that it’s going to hurt. He knows it is going to hurt, and he can accept that. He’ll brace through it and be grateful. But he does not feel like the stitches will hold, and he does not know if he will be able to hold still long enough. It is intrusive. Something that Andy has been almost the entire time since he’s first come back to life. 

Not that he’s meant to. Chucky is aware of this as well. Despite that knowledge, he still hesitates when Andy nods, finally grunting in consent and leaning forward. 

Andy catches him before he falls completely over. “It’ll be easier for me if you’re leaning forward, but if you feel tired, just hold onto me,” he says, not looking at him. The air is incredibly tense. Andy threads the needle one final time. Chucky resists his offer for a fraction of a second before immediately resting against Andy’s knees, eyes shut again, unable to watch. They’re too close and Andy is too gentle and this is all wrong. He feels mortified and fate is cruel. 

Chucky is bracing himself for the first puncture of the needle. He hears Andy take a deep breath as he takes ahold of his jaw with one hand. “Okay, just let your tongue hang out as far as you can,” Andy murmurs, and his voice sounds strained. He sounds unsure. “I just want to see how much I actually have to stitch.” 

Chucky complies, mentally rolling his eyes, but his heart is pounding. There is a shuffling. And then a soft chuckle that Chucky recognizes and immediately feels his heart leap. 

8

“Jesus, should I give you two some privacy? I leave to get the brats together and wash your dirty sheets for a few minutes - you’re welcome, by the way - and you’re already getting down to some kinkplay while I’m away, huh?” 

Andy squeaks and drops the needle, cursing under his breath, and Tiffany snorts under her breath. Chucky cracks open his eyes are her, scowling, but he doesn’t reply. She assumes it is because he is still weak. 

“Ms. Valentine… I’m trying… to do something very nerve-wracking right now,” Andy grits through his teeth. His cheeks are flushed, like she has actually caught them in the act. Two schoolboys in a back hallway between classes. Chucky seems in a much better state and things don’t seem quite as dire as they had earlier, and so she allows herself the liberty to snicker mischievously. 

“I take it you’re not lost in your own personally deserved hell, huh, Sweetcheeks?” she asks Chucky, who mutters something colorful and contrite. His speech is slurred and sloppy, and she takes notice of the way he still grips onto Andy’s shirt. He clearly does not have any intrinsic strength yet, and by the tinting across his face, he is still under a heavy fever. But other than this, the worst of it seems to be over, and she is free to leave whenever she pleases. Which she hopes to do as soon as possible. 

“I’m sorry, Andy my love,” she says, with still the sweetest lilt in her voice, but she means the apology for much more than teasing him. She is leaving him in the den alone again, to nurture none other than his worst enemy. The lion to the mouse. She has no interest in being around Chucky long though, as much as somewhere in her heart, she still loves him. It still stings being around him, hearing his voice. She remembers the words he’s said to her, and the biting tone he’s held against her before, and she is instantly repulsed. This is who she is leaving Andy with. This is why she is apologizing. 

Andy, however, has no earthly clue that she is undergoing this inner-turmoil. He is muttering to himself nervously and dedicating himself to the task of stitching up Chucky’s tongue, apologizing profusely every time Chucky hisses in pain and jerks his tongue away. 

“You’ve got to try and keep still, or this is going to take longer,” Andy presses. He’s patient and enduring; Tiffany suspects he’s also lucky Chucky is not at full strength in any way, shape or form. “All of the worst parts will be over after this.” 

She sighs and rolls her eyes affectionately, reminiscing. Although Chucky had not been conscious when she’d patched him together, she can see that same amount of meticulous care and tenderness in Andy’s handiwork. 

It makes her question just what Andy’s feelings for Chucky are, at this point in their time together. He surely does not hold quite as much animosity as he had once, that is clear. Chucky would have been left for dead, if that were the case. There has to be an amount of attachment or care of some sort for him to be treating Chucky the way he does now. In their time together, something has changed. Whether they admit it or not, they are not merely enemies anymore. Something grows underneath their hateful thicket, blossoming within the weeds. 

“I just came to say,” she finally speaks up. Andy hums in response, worrying his lip while stitching. “It looks like things are much better now, and I’ve got to be taking the twins to school tomorrow, so I’ll be leaving out soon. I made myself at home in your kitchen - I hope you don’t mind. I left food for the both of you as well.” 

“Thank you,” Andy pauses his work to turn and grab her hand, squeezing. He catches her eyes and it’s as if he can finally rest. As if they now they can all rest. “I know I can handle it from here. You were a lot more help than you realized, just by being here assuring me.” 

Chucky grunts, but he can’t make any quip with Andy’s thumb and forefinger gripping his tongue. Tiffany sticks her tongue out at him as soon as Andy turns, and then she leaves them, finding it hard not to smile at the way they bicker softly, even after everything they have just endured for the past several days. 

“Is Dad okay?” Glenda barrels her with questions as soon as she steps into the kitchen, with Glen just behind. “Can I see him? Does he look all mangled? Is he going to be a hunchback?” 

Glen doesn’t add to it, and Tiffany highly suspects he would rather just leave without even looking at Chucky, but Glenda’s morbid curiosity is high, and they are both dashing into the room before Tiffany can even protest for Glen’s sake. 

“Dad, you look like shit!” Glenda screams, and Tiffany hears Andy’s breathless laughter and Chucky’s weak retort, letting Glenda know the twins got half of their looks from him, so they look like half-shit. She huffs and gathers her things, knowing it will only be more of a scene if she does not go in to pry them out soon. 

“Glenda, you know you can’t say those kinds of words,” she directs, only to have Glenda turn their blue-green eyes on her with a wicked smile. “You and Dad say it,” they respond. Glen nods in agreement. Tiffany takes note of how they hold onto Andy’s sleeve, against Glenda going straight to Chucky to antagonize him. 

“You’re going to take care of our dad?” Glen asks Andy, in a soft, quivering voice. “Are you going to make him all better?” They tug at at Andy’s sleeve again, round eyes watching and waiting for a response. Tiffany wishes she knew which reply Glen wants - for Chucky to be okay, or for him to finally pass and leave them all alone. It is hard for her to love Chucky when she sees the mental scars he’s left on their child. 

Andy looks conflicted as well, unsure of what to say. “I’m just… I’m just doing what I can,” he finally settles on, and Glen seems satisfied with this answer. Tiffany notices how they do not acknowledge their father in any way, and it is only Glenda who interacts with him. They’re poking and prodding at all of his stitches, much to Chucky and Andy’s horror, who both plead with them to stop. 

“Alright, alright, you saw him. Let’s go so you can be rested up for school,” Tiffany interjects finally, deciding she needs to relieve both of the men. Glenda growls out their disapproval, but huffs dejectedly and complies in reluctance, tugging at Glen to follow along. 

“C’mon, we gotta go before we make Dad cry again,” they say, to which Glen finally manages a small smirk and Chucky just buries his face away in Andy’s chest, no doubt holding in a threat. Glenda is the only one of the twins who has the brass to tear Chucky down; Glen is still weighed down a timidness and trauma that Chucky passed down. Tiffany chuckles softly and ruffles Glenda’s hair, putting her arms around both of them and ushering them along. 

“Good luck,” she hollers to Andy over her shoulder. He nods wearily, fingers threaded in Chucky’s tangled hair. If she did not know better, she would say that they had both been through hell together, and just barely escaped. At this point, she knows it’s best that they’re left alone to cope, without any sudden distractions or commotions. She can take away two red-headed ones. 

She hands the twins their backpacks, tucking in Glen’s various stuffed animals and Glenda’s copic markers in their fore and side pockets. The apartment has an eerie aura settling into it; it is almost hauntingly quiet, considering the hellion screaming that had echoed in its walls for the past few days. She shoulders her own things, and with one last look around the apartment, she nudges the twins out of the door and slides it behind them, shuffling through her keys as they clamber down the stairs. 

The drive is chaotic, with Glenda antagonizing Glen in various car games, cheating and denying it. Tiffany finally snaps at them, adjusting her rear view mirror to glare at them until they quiet down. 

“Pick something to watch, Glen, and put it in the DVD player,” she commands, gripping the wheel. “And Glenda, leave your brother alone so we can get home in one piece. I’m not playing nurse for anyone else for the next couple of weeks.” Her knuckles are white. Glen shuffles in the back, and then she can hear the sound of a Studio Ghibli film beginning. Glenda mutters something under their breath, kicking the back of the passenger seat, but settles after a time, begrudgingly watching the film with Glen, arms crossed and mouth pouted. 

Tiffany sighs in relief, but her mind still wanders, worrying. She wonders if she should have stayed a bit longer and kept the kids out of school. She is sure the worst is over, but she has never seen a full transition once a soul has been transferred. Chucky was always the more knowledgeable one on this sort of thing, and it seemed even beyond his expertise. Way beyond. 

I assumed it was some kind of Voodoo thing, Andy had said. She hums thoughtfully. Pitya, pitya. She’s not sure what the word means. It does not sound familiar, except Chucky had cried it in such reverence she is sure it has a significance somehow.

 She has never seen him in such a broken state, and they have known each other for many years. Despite the rift in their relationship, she feels a dark shiver running down her spine imagining what he must have seen and felt. She wonders if it will haunt him. A part of her hopes it does. 

Her thoughts turn to Andy, who is left to clean up this mess, as he has been countless times before. She has left her job to him. Somehow, she feels like he is better equipped. Especially considering that he has a close companionship with the girl who’s aura reverberated a deep and ancient whisper. Somehow, she knows as long as Andy has her, things will be alright. They will survive, all of them there. 

Maybe one day she will have the courage to visit Chucky again, when she has done some healing of her own. She prays she will find him a better man when she does. 

9

He can count the days now, despite a continued pain that lingers beneath his skin. He can count the days and he can enjoy food and drink, and Andy comes to him after work and cares for him in gentle ways that he wishes did not imprint on him so much. He can count the days and he can count how many hours Andy cuts out of work to make sure he is home to take care of him. He cannot quite get out of bed on his own, as his body is slowly regaining strength, and even with Andy’s assistance it feels as if he will never be able to be independent again. But he knows he will, and he knows that if he had become parapalegic at the end of all of this he would deserve it. 

It does not change the fact that there is a looming and weary misery that hangs around his neck when he is alone. He does not like where his mind wanders, and against his will, he begins to yearn for the sound of Andy turning the knob and coming home, just to have a conversation with another human being. Just to hear another voice besides his own. 

And Andy’s voice is so soothing. There is something about it he had not noticed before, but now notices quite often, uncomfortable as this revelation leaves him. He notices the way it does not seem to change in energy, and while he had found it emotionless at first, the more Andy visits with him and swaps stories with him, the more he realizes that Andy is simply a calm storm. His ways of dealing with turmoil are steady and determined. Even his laugh is low and gentle, never changing. 

A hole begins to form in his stomach whenever Andy leaves again, and nothing he does seems to fill it. When he is alone, his thoughts wander into a tangled and desolate place, dry and screeching. 

Andy is tending to his stitches again, checking them scrupulously with knitted brows, when finally the idea of the hole seems unbearable. Andy is dabbing at his wounds, changing his shirt, brushing his hair - things that still leave him intensely tingling - and despite how warm it all feels, he cannot help the growing dread. That when the door closes, he will be alone again, and the screams will take over while he tries to sleep. The angel has not visit him in any of his recent dreams. 

“Andy…” he croaks out, his tongue still sore and awkward from the stitching. He tickles the roof of his mouth whenever his tongue brushes against it. Out of the entire process of healing, he thinks this part may be the most aggravating. 

Andy hums, but his mind is trained on the work between them. Chucky feels his heart stick in his throat watching him. It hurts almost, the amount of care that Andy puts into this. Into him. 

“Andy, this is gonna sound so weird and awkward, but…” he chokes, feeling a true flush heat him from the inside out. It should not be hard to do this, after what he has been through. But he feels dry nonetheless. Andy turns his eyes on him. Bright. Something about them is a familiar comfort. He chalks it up to the fact they’ve lived together for a while now. 

He reaches for Andy’s arm. His skin feels so cool. He shivers. “I… I really don’t want to be alone…” he murmurs, looking down. He feels dizzy. He wants to lie down. Just not yet. Not here. Not alone. “... can you… can you stay here? At least until I fall asleep…”  

He sounds so small. He hates it. But he can’t help it. The dreams are so harsh. And he is so weak. Andy tenderly touches his stitching with calloused fingertips, causing him to shudder and whimper into him. 

“I’m cold…” he whispers, voice shaking. “I’m so cold, Andy.” 

Andy doesn’t move at first. But then Chucky feels his arms wrap around him, and he feels as if he’s arrived home after a long and grueling journey, and cannot hold in the exhausted and relieved sigh as he clutches Andy’s shirt, feeling tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. 

“Please don’t leave me,” he pleads. “I’m so scared…”

Andy tightens his arms around him, hushing him. “Of course, of course,” he coos quietly, tucking Chucky into his arms. Chucky wants nothing more than to hold onto him, to pull him so close he knows for sure Andy will not - cannot - leave him. But he has no strength still, and can only ask and hope that Andy grants it. 

Fortunately for him, Andy has chosen to be merciful. He is not sure why, only that he is grateful. 

Then he feels himself lifting, and Andy is carrying him through the apartment, cradling him in one arm as if he were a small child. He should feel ashamed, he should feel angry - but none of those feelings manage to come. He is only relieved, thrilled even, that he is here, and he is safe. 

Andy gently lowers him onto the couch, adjusting the pillows and a quilt that Chucky is sure Karen had bought for him. The way Andy tucks him in only leaves him more emotionally vulnerable than before. 

“You… don’t have to do that… fucker,” he manages weakly. Andy grins at him, and he feels everything inside him melting. Something has changed, and he is not sure he is ready. He feels like crying again, and he does not know why, and he is just not ready…

Andy is wiping at his cheeks, and he’s sobbing out loud, the sheer desperation and relief wafting out of him. The dam is broken, and he is damned and broken. Andy settles next to him, remote in hand, and turns the television on, only to set the remote down and stroke his hair, and it is the most wonderful feeling in the world, and it breaks his heart. 

“It’s okay,” Andy whispers, pulling him closer with one arm. “You’re going to be okay. It’s over, buddy.” 

His tears dry, and the soup Andy has apparently made has cooled, and while Chucky has never known Andy to be a cook, the taste is welcome, and warm, and Andy has let him rest his feet on his knees. He’s wearing Andy’s socks, so they slip and threaten to come off, but Andy adjusts them and spoonfeeds him the soup, prattling on about work, or his mother, or anything. 

They fall asleep together on the couch, and it is the best sleep he’s had since he’s come back to life, swaddled in blankets and tucked beneath Andy’s chin. He falls asleep to Andy’s heartbeat, steady and calm. A vow. 

He sees him that night dressed in white and at the edge of a river, where the sun sets just in the distance. 

“I need to thank you,” he calls, voice hoarse. The angel turns to him and smiles, soft and warm. 

“Of course,” is all the angel replies, and kisses his forehead. Chucky wakes against Andy’s chest, drooling from a well-needed heavy sleep. 

The next couple of weeks he falls with a heavy fever, and Andy is beside him then as well. Kristen and Jess come along every once in a while, but it is Andy who stays with him, bathing him and feeding him and tending to his wounds, slowly nursing him back to health. 

He can finally rest again, the pain at last gone, but his mind runs amok. He has sleepless nights and dream-addled days, and each time, the same reverie revisits him; he is in perdition, and the gen-pitya angel comes to him, liberating him when all hope seems lost. 

He remains alone when Andy is away at work, and he sketches often as he slowly heals, and it is Andy’s face at the end of his pencil every time, with sympathetic-doe eyes and the wings of a dove. He tries not to think too much about what this means, but he cannot stop drawing him, even if he wanted to. His hand cramps from it though, and he knows that he is human. 

He is alive. 

[granmet]

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻

repost,  don’t reblog !

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

FULL NAME.    marie laveau NICKNAME.   n/a GENDER.    cis female HEIGHT.     5′9′’ AGE.   200+ chronologically; physically in her late 20s // early 30s ZODIAC.   virgo  SPOKEN LANGUAGES.  english, louisiana creole, french, latin + others with magic as needed

𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

HAIR COLOR.    dark brown EYE COLOR.    dark brown SKIN TONE.    medium brown BODY TYPE.    curvy; she has some weight on her VOICE.   average tone and volume, with a slight southern accent DOMINANT HAND.    right POSTURE.   relaxed SCARS.    n/a TATTOOS.  none permanent; she does sometimes wear body paint BIRTHMARKS.    none MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).   hair

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 !

PLACE OF BIRTH.    new orleans, louisiana HOMETOWN.    new orleans SIBLINGS.   none PARENTS.   charles laveau & marguerite henry  

𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 !

OCCUPATION.   shop owner // coven leader CURRENT RESIDENCE.  new orleans CLOSE FRIENDS.   julien, estelle, john RELATIONSHIP STATUS.    complicated? she’s in a spiritual marriage with damballah but is polyamorous FINANCIAL STATUS.    high class DRIVER’S LICENSE.   yes CRIMINAL RECORD.   no VICES.   pride, greed

𝐬𝐞𝐱 & 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 !

SEXUAL ORIENTATION.   bisexual PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.    submissive |  dominant  | switch PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.    submissive | dominant |  switch LIBIDO.   average, though she doesn’t tend to pay it much mind TURN ON’S.    she likes people who can be equals to her; she plays the role of a mother for so many, so she doesn’t exactly want to be coddling someone. someone who is kind, powerful, and intelligent TURN OFF’S.    anyone domineering or vicious LOVE LANGUAGE.   receiving gifts, quality time, and physical affection RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.  she is polyamorous. relationship status is a bit complicated with her spiritual marriage to damballah. outside of that, she hasn’t typically pursued any relationships since her second husband died. she has had short little flings but nothing serious has come out of anything. with the way she is ( her age + immortality ), she may be a bit reluctant to pursue relationships because of her experience and the fact that she doesn’t age and won’t die. she’s not really a heart on her sleeves type of person and can typically come across as a bit distant

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG.  n/a

HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.   dancing, fortune telling, hair styling MENTAL ILLNESSES.  n/a LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED.  right PHOBIAS.    n/a SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.   10/10  VULNERABILITIES.   her coven, her familiar

[rockofeye]

Best Laid Plans

It’s sort of perversely amusing that, as I planned out a series of posts for the dead of Vodou, I ran face full into a whole lot of grief that I was intending to tidily ignore. It’s almost as if my favorite Dead Man thought I had some other work that needed tending. Funny, isn’t it? That compounded with some medical stuff (surprise oral surgery!) and I am super behind on my planned Gede posts. They’ll still happen, but in Gede’s time instead of mine, I suppose.

Grief is a funny, amorphous, blobular thing. It shows up when it wants and speaks feelings into reality at the most inopportune times. It is both illogical and utterly grounded in day-to-day pragmatism in that the smallest thing is vitally important and cracks open the seal you plaster over the rawness of your feelings. It isn’t even just one thing; it is anger and fury and fear and betrayal and despair and all of their friends wrapped into one awful package that gets dropped on your doorway.

It sort of stacked up last week. The HHS memo saying that the federal government is going to push for a too-stupid-to-really-understand-biology definition of gender and require genetic testing for anyone who wishes to deviate from that. The DOJ delivering a brief to the Supreme Court stating that transgender discrimination is not illegal (with the happy sideline of opening the door to saying that discrimination around sexual orientation is not actually a thing...read that brief carefully). My state is getting ready to vote on whether or not transgender folks have the same rights as cisgender folks get around access to housing and bathrooms and public spaces, and that vote is being held up as a thermometer for state-level and official federal legislation about transgender people. It’s the unfolding of genocide.

Then, a white supremacist murdered two Black folks in a fucking grocery store. A white supremacist and anti-Semite broke into a synagogue and murdered 11 Jews. The fascist-in-chief’s biggest fan was mailing bombs to anyone who has spoken out about the absolutely immoral actions undertaken by him. The fascist-in-chief is planning on gunning down people with their children in their arms who arrive at the border seeking aid and asylum. Every time you look at the news or any social media, there’s something else.

That and medical stuff sort of shut it all down. What do you do when everything is on fire and the federal government is planning to kill you and everyone like you? I sat and stared at things a lot and didn’t write a word.

When a routine dental thing went sideways and turned into oral surgery that I got to be awake for, and then went sideways again, I prayed the oh-shit prayers. Those are the most fervent of prayers that only bubble up (or vomit out) when you find yourself in a situation that truly looks dire. When the dentist got nervous and was worried that the work wouldn’t be able to be completed, I started the oh-shit prayers. 

I know you’re all listening. You need to help manage this, because this pain is too much and this has to be finished today. Damballah Wedo, who winds through the nervous system; Gede, gran doktè....DO SOMETHING. Ogou, you can do anything you goddamn want to...let’s go. SHIT, Kriminel, you can eat this for dinner. I KNOW YOU ARE LISTENING I CAN’T DO THIS ALONE.

With my feet in the air and hands in my mouth, I basically shrieked inside my head, because what else do you do when teeth are unexpectedly being taken out of your mouth in pieces? I shrieked and I shrieked and then, with some godawful dentist torture tool in my mouth, there was this moment of bizarre peace while the dentist was trying to wiggle something else loose. Wasn’t going to be easy, wasn’t going to be fun but it was going to get done like it needed to. I didn’t know that you could find peace in a dentist’s chair, but I can be taught new things.

It took another 40 minutes, but the dentist did the thing. My mouth is hamburger and I haven’t eaten solid food or left the house in two days, but it’s done and the next step won’t be nearly as awful once this mess heals. My boss has been super accommodating about me working from home. It’s all okay.

Grace is a funny thing, like grief is a funny thing. It shows up when you need it most but perhaps expect it least, and it is endlessly pragmatic. The situation is not suddenly going to be puppies and rainbows, but maybe it isn’t going to be an utter squealing disaster. Maybe you walk away kind of beat up, but you still walk away and you know that something had your back because boy howdy could it have been way worse.

I don’t know. My mouth is hamburger and things are dangling where they should not dangle, but it’s okay. It’ll heal, and my lwa didn’t marry me for my beautiful gums anyways. I hope that, for folks who are experiencing the grief of watching their humanity being stripped away or who grieve the murder of Black folks and Jews who died at the hands of hate made popular by the sitting fascist or grief of anything, you get to experience a little grace, in whatever way speaks closest to your heart. 

Maybe without the dangly bits in your mouth, though.

[minus-moscow]

Queering Myths Collection

Erzulie (Voodoo)

The goddess or iwa of love, beauty and passion. She wears three wedding rings in recognition of her three husbands – the gods Ogun, Agwe and Damballah. Erzulie’s three husbands pamper her and provide her with a lavish and luxurious existence, an idyllic life broken up only by the sadness the goddess feels because of broken hearts among humans.

The goddess is always powdered and perfumed and adorns herself with all manner of jewelry. Erzulie has affairs with many gods besides just her husbands. She enjoys sugar-cakes and champagne and a sudden desire for these things can mark a mortal woman as possessed by Erzulie.

As well as a polyamorous relationship with her husbands, Erzulie can manifest other aspects that are LGBT-related, including transgender or amazonian traits, in addition to traditionally feminine guises. When inhabiting men, these aspects can result in transgender or homoerotic behaviour, whereas they may result in lesbianism or anti-male sentiment in women. Erzulie Freda is seen as the protector of gay men, and Erzulie Dantor is associated with lesbians.

Small note