[OctaviusHunter]

Here's a piece that was published about 3 years ago.

The Baby Boy

He loved winters in North Dakota. He’d been hunting on the Spirit Lake American Indian reservation for seven days. He planned on staying. He’d developed a taste for Dakota and Ojibwa women, they’re minds were strong. When they broke it was like a plump grape bursting in your mouth after going without water.

He’d been stalking Charity for two days. He stood outside her window tonight. He tapped upon her mind, sampled the delicacies of love, dreams, and visions. He’d turn them all black before he was done.

He softly searched through her mind, sifting her fears and dreams like a potter sifting dirt. His sustenance was in draining the mind; he fed on dark emotions. He drank of despair, terror, resignation, revulsion, abhorrence, and raw pain like the French drank chocolate and wine.

Some might call him vampire but he certainly was not undead. His was an evolved race; his mind was a weapon used for rape and torture and to most, he would seem immortal and god-like.
He walked into Charity’s house knowing her husband was away. They had no children. He’d hung the dog from a yard-lamp . . . inside out. He ran his hands softly over her body. Her mind responded. He increased the amount of melatonin in her brain and soothed her dreams. She fell much deeper into sleep.
“Charity? Charity, wake up.” Templar spoke gently as he twisted the garrote slowly. Her breathing became hampered and she began to gag. Charity’s eyes flew open in a panic. Her mind was confused. Her thoughts raced. She couldn’t move. The wind bit sharply into her bare skin.

“Good morning, Charity. My name is Marvin, I’m your salvation.” Templar smiled and continued to tighten the garrote. “Does it hurt?” He asked innocently. He watched a tear run down her cheek. She was quite beautiful. Her hair was long and jet-black. Her face was the elegant and aristocratic face of the Ojibwa; with high cheekbones, and dark, flushed skin. She resembled the classic Indian princess of yore.

She gagged and her body began to convulse slightly. A small drop of blood traced its way down her neck from the garrote. “My child, forgive me.” Templar said. “This is no good.” He continued. He began to loosen the garrote. Relief flooded her mind. He saw her eyes finally focus on him and revulsion almost completely overcame her. He was standing naked before her, covered in the dog’s blood. Panic set in and she tried to escape. She was bound to a tree. She looked around and recognized the area just beyond the east pasture. There was no moon tonight but she could see Templar clearly.

“You look cold, Charity. I’ll warm you.” Templar stated as he covered her body with his. Charity began to gag. Templar reveled in the taste of her revulsion. “Your mind is strong, princess. This will be a wonderful night.” He said lewdly, as he again began to tighten the garrote. As he continued tightening the garrote, he ran a sharpened fingernail down her cheek to rest lightly on her shoulder. He kissed her shoulder. She shuddered.

Thus, began a marathon of tightening, loosening, and covering. Templar was a master at maintaining life, while destroying it simultaneously. Finally, he said to her, “Shall we end this wonderful dance Charity? Do you seek salvation?” Her mind and spirit were numb. Numb to the horror, pain, and revulsion, all she registered was despair. At his words, hope flared and he giggled like a giddy schoolgirl.

He tightened the garrote to the point of blood and watched her eyes widen. Then he unbound her from the tree and tasted hope renew. He carried her to a place several feet to the left of where she’d been bound. He stood her up on a block of wood and gently raised one of her arms. It was then she noticed they were standing between the two trees where her husband hung his hammock in the summer.

Templar proceeded to tie her arm to one tree and her other arm to the other tree. If he took away the stool she’d be hanging between the two trees. She could just barely breath and her body was numb from the cold as he began to drive the foot-long icicles into her wrists, nailing her between the trees. “Now, let me warm your core.” He whispered into her ear from behind. She sensed his heat but feeling was lost.

The drums began. Throbbing in his mind. He hated the traditional drumming! It destroyed his focus. Feeding was worthless; sustenance yes, enjoyment no! He pulled away from Charity and kicked away the support under her feet. The ice spikes supported her full weight. The drums, the throbbing. He hated them! “I think you’ll just die now!!” He growled. He began to strike her in the kidneys. He slashed her with his sharpened fingernails. His mind struck violently at her brainstem.
He felt the blade enter his neck as he registered the chanting just next to him. He felt the presence of the eighty-year-old wise woman’s mind. Realization struck him!! The elders had tracked his spirit. They’d drummed with their medicine to confuse him. When he’d lost focus through rage, the wise woman had attacked.

He laughed as his body died. Charity’s eyes flew open. Nine months later a baby boy was born.