index


Message-ID: <63120asstr$1412500259@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: The Technician <technician666@gmail.com>
Reply-To: Technician666@GMail.colm
User-Agent: ForteAgent/7.20.32.1218
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable
Subject: {ASSM} A Visit From Saint Michael - A Halloween Story     Halloween, Sado-Masochism, Forced Nudity, Forced Oral, Forced Anal, Flogging, Whipping, Fantasy Revenge.
Lines: 673
Date: Sun, 05 Oct 2014 05:10:59 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

A Visit From Saint Michael - A Halloween Story

by The Technician

Halloween, Sado-Masochism, Forced Nudity, Forced Oral, Forced Anal,
Flogging, Whipping, Fantasy Revenge.

 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
  Do you really want to know what went on behind "The Gates of Hell?" 

 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

 WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18
ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All
people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to
persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations,
and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real
life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference
between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province,
nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts
depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to
somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if
acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is
included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The
Technician ( Technician666@Gmail.Com. )

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this
story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies
of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly
forbidden.

 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
 * * * * * * * * * * * * 

I sent the request through his publicist and spokesperson like I did
every year figuring that the worst that could happen was that he would
once again say "No!" Much to my surprise, however, this year when the
publicist called back, rather than a polite refusal, he instead said,
"Mr. Summerfield has agreed to see you." 

I had first asked Marvin Summerfield to meet with me six years ago for
what I hoped would be a thirty-fifth anniversary article about the
events which caused him to become a recluse. He said, "No." I asked
again the next year, and the next, and the next... and he said "No"
each time. It is now 41 years since that infamous Halloween party
which forced him into seclusion. For some reason, this year, he said,
"Yes."

I got it! I couldn't believe my luck. This was going to be the
interview that would make my career and establish me as a serious
journalist. Marvin H. Summerfield hadn't spoken to the press in over
forty years, and I was going to get a private interview with him!

Before disappearing from the public eye, M. H. Summerfield had been
the editor, publisher, and owner of  The Modern Hedonist magazine.
While Hefner had pushed the boundaries of social acceptability with
Playboy's artistic sexuality, and Guccione had pushed the boundaries
of taste with Penthouse's outright sex, Summerfield had gone beyond
either of them and pushed the societal limits of acceptability, taste,
and legality with graphic depictions of bondage, discipline, and
all-out sado-masochism.

The cries to shut him down came not only from the expected sources-
the offended Bible-thumpers and nervous law enforcement officials- but
also from some of the more liberal voices of society who felt that
Summerfield's excesses would create a severe back-lash of public
opinion that would undo everything that had been gained in the
previous decade.

And Summerfield's excesses were not limited to the pages of his
magazine. Rumors of what went on at his mansion, which was also his
center of operations, swirled through the tabloids. The New York
Times, in a scathing editorial about the parties and events held
there, called the mansion a "Dungeon of Hedonism."

It was intended as a rebuke, but Marvin had so liked that description
that he replaced the large M. H. S. which was worked into the
filigreed iron arch above the mansion's ornate gates with those exact
words.

In smaller letters beneath "Dungeon of Hedonism," he also added,
"Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate", which is what Dante said was
the inscription over the gates of Hell. "Abandon all hope, ye who
enter here."

It was behind those wrought iron gates that Marvin Summerfield held
his final party on Halloween night, forty-one years ago. No one is
quite sure what happened on that night. There were only twelve people
present and none of them has ever spoken with the press. There were
rumors. And there was speculation. But there were no facts. Now all
that was going to change. I was going to talk to the man himself, and
I was going to be the first person  ever to be able to tell the world
what really happened.

Some facts were already known. Initial reports had indicated that
during the early afternoon on Halloween day, Mr. Summerfield had
released all of the servants and grounds keepers for the evening.  He
instructed them and their families not to return to their residences
on the grounds until morning, but to stay in the hotel rooms which he
had especially booked for them in one of the downtown luxury hotels.

They, of course, did as instructed and stayed away until the next
morning. When they arrived back at the mansion, there were still five
cars parked in the circular driveway. From the bright windows shining
behind the shrubbery, they could see that the lights were still on in
the basement "play area."

Upon entering the house, they discovered Jane Woodman lying on the
floor near the door. She was dressed in thigh-high boots, long, black
leather gloves, a black leather bustier, and a black cowl mask. She
was obviously dead.

The servants went no further into the house, but instead went to their
own quarters and called the police. The police carefully entered and
searched the mansion but found no one else until they reached the
basement play room. Harold Overton was also dead. Marie Donald, Frank
Wilson, and Sharon Wood, close associates of Marvin Summerfield who
shared his twisted interests, were on the floor in the center of the
room... alive, but catatonic and totally insane. Marvin was sitting in
a leather overstuffed chair staring at the back wall of the dungeon.
Shackled to that wall, three facing it, three facing out into the
room, were six young Hispanic women.

All of the girls were naked. They had been severely beaten and
apparently sexually abused in horrific ways. All six of them were
crying and babbling in a mixture of an odd Spanish and strange
Indio-Mexican that none of the officers could understand.

When the officers cut them loose and began to cover them with
blankets, however, the women seemed to understand that they were being
rescued. Since the concern was for their health and well-being, they
were immediately taken to the hospital... along with Marie, Frank,
Sharon, and, of course, Marvin Summerfield himself.

By the time the police were able to find an interpreter who could
comprehend the dialect the girls were speaking, lawyers for The Modern
Hedonist had stepped in and no one was saying anything to anyone about
what had happened. There was a great deal of speculation in the news
media about what  might have happened at the Halloween party, but the
true nature of the events of that night could never be proven.

The next morning, the girls were returned to their villages somewhere
in the depths of rural southern Mexico. Requests to the Mexican
authorities to locate the women were met with polite refusals. Finally
one Mexican official explained that in those remote areas, even the
drug lords have a very tenuous hold over local tribes and villages. No
government official would risk going back into those mountains for
something as trivial as a request for information from Estados Unidos.
The official coroner's report said that both deaths were due to heart
failure, but could not explain why the hearts of two apparently very
healthy, middle-aged people had suddenly stopped. There were no drugs
other than alcohol in either person's system, so the cause of death
remained unexplained. Nor was there any explanation as to why the
other three were completely deranged. The final result was an "open
verdict," meaning that something was suspicious in the deaths, but
there was no way to establish cause of death or definitively decide
for or against foul play.

The magazine published one final issue- it was already at the printers
a the time of the party-  and then the great Marvin Summerfield empire
faded back into the muck and mire from which it had arisen. Shortly
thereafter, all Modern Hedonist clubs were also closed, and Marvin
himself retired completely from public life, refusing all requests for
interviews or public appearances... that is, until tonight.

Tonight, I was going to interview the great Marvin H. Summerfield and
tell the world the true story of the Halloween party that was held
behind the gates of Hell.

***

I arrived at the mansion at 9:00 pm on Halloween. He had been
specific. It had to be 9:00 pm on this night or not at all. I knew
from an invitation which had been found at the scene that 9:00 pm was
the time the party was supposed to start that night.

When I arrived, I was ushered into a rather dimly-lit study by a
silent, morose man who merely nodded at me when I said who I was. He
directed me to an overstuffed chair that was drawn up to a small
coffee table. Across from me was a divan, and on the divan sat the
frail husk of what had once been one of the most feared- and loathed-
men in publishing.

Marvin looked around the room as if to make sure that we were alone.
Then he whispered quietly, "Shut the door."

When I had done so and returned to my chair he said in a slightly
louder, but still very subdued voice, "Put your recorder on the desk
and take out the battery. Same with your cellphone."

I was more than a little confused, but I complied. Then he said, "I am
going to tell you the truth, but you can never publish it... not while
I'm alive. One, no one will believe you.  And two..." He paused to
laugh. It was the kind of laugh that causes your blood to run cold;
the kind of laugh that you normally do not hear anywhere but behind
the locked doors of a psychiatric ward. Then he looked directly at me
and continued, "... and two, you  don't want a visit from Saint
Michael."

He grinned at me. It was not a normal grin. It was as if he were
holding tenuously onto the very edge of sanity. "I've never told
anyone this story," he said. "You can tell it after I'm dead. Maybe it
will be a warning to others."

He settled back slightly into his chair and began, "It was supposed to
be a snuff party."

His eyes widened at my reaction to what he had said. "You look
surprised and shocked," he said. "But where do you go when you have
already gone beyond everything? It was time for us to experience the
ultimate depravity, fatal Sado-masochism."

He exhaled in a short burst through his nose that was almost a snort.
"Or, at least, that is what was eventually supposed to happen that
night. I had procured six virgins from deep in the rural areas of
southern Mexico. It was easy to entice them to come north. They were
offered jobs as maids and promised that they would receive citizenship
within a year."

He laughed and then smiled at me. "People can be so trusting and naive
when they don't really know what is going to happen to them... can't
they?"

The fear that comment caused to rise within me was not assuaged as he
grinned crazily at me as if expecting an answer. I had no idea what he
had meant or what he possibly expected as an answer, so I remained
silent.

"Their first realizations that things were not what they expected were
when Frank, Harold, and I overpowered them and shackled them to the
wall of the dungeon. There were six of them and six of us, but it
wasn't going to be a one-on-one evening. Where is the terror and
helplessness of that? No, acting all together we tormented each of
them in turn."

He made snipping motions with his hands as if cutting something with a
pair of scissors. "Even the simple act of cutting off someone's
clothing can be so exhilarating if done slowly and by overwhelming
force."

That smile again. "Oh, I don't mean that we weren't very gentle about
it. This was early in the evening. Nothing touched their skin except
the cold feel of the little scissors we each held. We were the
overwhelming force. The scissors were gentle little mice, slowly
gnawing away at their modesty.

"The girls were all blindfolded at this point, so the others did not
know what was happening until it began to happen to them. Imagine,
standing shackled hand and foot to a wall hearing your childhood
friends scream and cry out and beg for mercy."

He stared at me for a moment. His eyes were wild. "Heh... heh...
heh..."  That insane laugh began to bubble from within him and he
fought to hold it back. Finally regaining control, he set his hands on
his lap like a prim old lady at tea and continued. "These girls were
absolute virgins... virgin to nakedness... virgin to humiliation...
virgin to pain... virgin front, back, and mouth... and, of course,
virgin to death. Our plan was to take each of their virginities from
them one at a time."

He gave a deep sigh. "I don't know if we actually would have been able
to take that last virginity from them. I often wonder if we would have
truly done it even if he had not stopped us." Again he gave me that
crazy smile. His mouth was held tightly shut, but the edges of his
mouth seemed to curve up almost to his ears, distorting his face into
a clownish grimace. Each time I witnessed that smile, the image burned
deeper into my memory.

"But I am getting ahead of myself," he said calmly. "We were still at
that first virginity... nakedness. We took our time, slowly cutting
their clothing from their bodies. For someone who came from an almost
tropical area, they wore a surprising number of layers of clothing.
All of their clothing was hand made.   There was no elastic or metal
in anything. And everything, even their crude brasiers, was tied with
homemade soft rope or strips of fabric.

"We experimented with what brought the most screams.  The first girl
we stripped layer by layer until she was wearing nothing but her
fabric brasier and what looked like thin baggy swim shorts. She
screamed and thrashed when we cut the straps holding her bra in place,
and then screamed even more when we cut the tie on those shorts and
let them slide down her legs revealing her sex. She continued to
scream as we cut them from her body."

Time for another crazy smile. "None of us could understand what they
were saying, but there was enough true Spanish to know that she was
begging for mercy. She was also calling upon someone to help her. It
sounded something like `Mickey Choo Choo,' but none of us could really
make out the name.

"With the second girl we changed the order and cut the boxy underwear
away before we removed the bra. The effect was the same, so it was
apparently total nakedness that was most terrifying. I had thought
that we should have left two of them unblindfolded to see if being
blindfolded increased the terror of being stripped naked. But Harold
and Jane both convinced me that they had enough experience with
humiliation and forced nakedness to know that not being able to tell
when eyes were actually looking at you, or how many eyes, heightened
the sense of absolute, helpless, nakedness.

"With the third girl, we cut away everything from the waist up before
beginning below the waist. Surprisingly, that led to a double peak of
terror. When the thin material of the bra was cut away, she screamed
as loudly and thrashed as violently- or more so- as had the first two.
And then her screams and cries for mercy continued to mount as we
snipped away at her lower clothing. She, too, was crying out that
`Mickey Choo Choo' name, but also was calling for `Santa Morty.'"

We repeated that same sequence on the fourth girl. She also screamed
and cried out for both `Choo Choo' and `Morty', but I noticed that her
nipples were engorging and starting to stand out stiff from her
breasts. I kept the dungeon room quite warm so that I could be
comfortable without clothing, so it wasn't the cold that was causing
her nipples to become erect. Despite her terror, or perhaps because of
it, she was becoming sexually aroused. That was confirmed when we
finally dropped her drawers and cut them from her legs. The hair of
her crotch was glistening with moisture, and the smell of hot cunt was
evident in the room."

He stopped and with closed eyes tilted his head slightly upward as if
he were savoring that particular image or memory. Then he continued.
"The other two were just as enjoyable to watch and listen to, but
neither of them became aroused. By the time we got to the last girl,
she was chanting continuously, `Mickey Choo Choo, Mickey Choo Choo,
Mickey Choo Choo...'"

He remained silent and stared at me with the ghost of that crazy smile
still on his face. It was obvious that he was waiting for a response.
I asked, "So, I assume that you next took their virginity of pain?"

"Ah," he responded, "you are forgetting humiliation."

He folded his hands in his lap once again and continued, "Being naked
is humiliating, but true humiliation is being naked and having to face
those who have stripped you. Next we took off their blindfolds- again
one by one. Frank would untie the cloth carefully, holding it tight
against their faces until that moment when he could suddenly whip it
away and leave them blinking in the light."

That crazy smile was starting to irritate- no, unnerve me.

"We were still dressed in our formal attire at that point," he said.
"The contrast between full regalia and full nakedness was thus even
greater. We let them tremble for a bit, and then stroked their skin
and tweaked their nipples and ran our hands between their legs. They
couldn't move away from us, but oh, they tried. Yes, they tried...
except number four. She pulled away at first, but then stood there
with tears running down her face and let us feel her up. She even
pushed back slightly against my hand as I slid it between her legs.
For some reason that caused her to burst into tears of shame."

Again he savored the moment before saying suddenly and quickly,"Then
we introduced them to pain.  Their screams were to be the entr'acte as
we changed our clothing in preparation for the next act. Jane had been
wearing a long, formal, opera dress over her dominatrix attire, so she
stepped out of the room for but a second to strip off and immediately
returned.

"None of the girls knew what to expect when this masked woman appeared
suddenly before them with her bullwhip in her hands. She chose number
five as her first intended for this intermission interlude of screams
and the whip began to dance over the young girl's flesh."

A deep sigh and closed eyes indicated that once again he was relishing
a memory of that night. "Jane was a master of the whip. I had once
watched her strike a victim a dozen times and touch nothing but the
naked woman's clit and nipples. That night, she extended her record.
It wasn't until the thirtieth lash that the tip of the whip touched
anything but the unfortunate girl's most tender spots. `Merde,' she
said. `I was hoping to be able to make it to an even three dozen.'"

By the time she had finished, we were all changed. Marie was also in a
dom's outfit, but less elaborate than Jane's. Sharon was nude... well
as nude as you can be with a full body tattoo that covers your entire
torso from knees to elbows. Her horimona was done in the traditional
Japanese fashion, but it depicted Dante's nine circles of Hell. The
face of the akuma himself covered her entire abdomen with the lower
portion of the face placed so that her cunt formed the devil's mouth."

He laughed. This time it was almost a normal laugh, but it was still
tinged with a touch of hysteria. "They all knew what that meant. Half
of them were crying `Ahh-pook, Ahh-pook.' The others were screaming
`Il Diabla.' Number six returned to her chant of `Mickey-choo-choo'
just as Sharon's flogger began to strike. Something about that chant
must have angered Sharon because she seemed to lose control and
slashed wildly until the girl was finally hanging limp in her chains."

He looked around the room suddenly as if he had heard someone, or
something moving in the darkness beyond the circle of light where we
sat. His face was filled with fear, but then he seemed to calm himself
and continued. "Then it was time for the second act. We unchained the
girls one at a time and brought them into the center of the room where
we had a padded bench and table and stocks.

"Numbers one and two were forced to their knees and made to use their
mouths. Number one did not quite understand what she was to do for
Marie, but when her head was forced against Marie's cunt and held
there until she nearly passed out from lack of breath, she got the
idea and began to nuzzle and lap. Marie remained standing with her
legs spread and her hands firmly grasping the girl's head. When she
climaxed, she held the girl's face against her sloppy sex for so long,
that when she released her grip, the girl fell to the floor
unconscious. We shackled her back in place facing the wall before she
regained her senses.

"Number two knew what was expected of her when she was forced to kneel
before Harold. She kept mumbling `Santa Morty' even as he thrust his
quite impressive member in an out of her throat. He, too, held her
tightly against his groin as he spurted into her stomach. She was weak
and wobbly as we put her back on the wall, but she did not lose
consciousness.

"Three and four were destined to lose their anal virginity in this
round. I especially looked forward to seeing how number four would
react as I plunged into her ass. Frank and Sharon were obviously
surprised when instead of screams of pain, she began panting and
moaning as I buggered her. I had expected it, but they had not."

He gave me what had to be the most maniacal of his smiles and said,
"There is a pleasure that comes from forcing pain upon an unwilling
victim that many people do not understand. And there is a different
pleasure that comes from forcing pleasure on an unwilling victim. But
there is nothing that can compare with forcing painful pleasure on
someone like number four. I knew that what I was doing was terribly
painful, but she could not control her body as she moaned and writhed
beneath me. She strained against the restraints of the bench as I
finally drove her into orgasm. Her long, drawn out cry of release was
`Micky-choo-choo' and then some other words that were not Spanish.
They were no language I had ever heard in any of my travels in old
Mexico.

"Five and six were just fucks. Frank, as usual, didn't last very long,
but Jane continued forever, driving her strap-on into number six until
the poor girl was reduced to nonsensical babbling."

Another smile. "Then it was time for the second entr'acte . One, three
and four were now chained facing the wall. Two, five and six were
still hanging with their backs to the wall. The screams were beautiful
until we got to number four. I was using a long, flat, single strand,
flexible whip that looked like a tawse, except that it was nearly six
feet long. I don't know the official name for it, but we called it
`the snake's tongue.'

"The snake's tongue licked at number four's body as I moved it from
her wrists to her ankles and then back up to whip around her middle
and snap at the tenderness between her legs. She was crying out in
pain, but her cries were mixed with moans, and I was possessed with
the idea of making her cum just from the pain."

This time he sighed deeply two or three times. The memory was
obviously overwhelmingly pleasurable for him. "Her body was red and
purple from top to bottom, but she still would not climax. I turned
the whip and flipped it upward between her legs so that the snake's
tongue could nibble directly on her slit and clit."

He stared out into the room over my head. All expression was gone from
his face. There was no smile. There was no laughter. There was no
emotion in his voice. "And then she said it. ... She screamed out
`Saint Michael save me!'"

The maniacal laughter overwhelmed him before he could force it back
down within himself. It was several minutes before he could again gain
control of himself and sit quietly.  After a few quiet moments he
smiled again at me and said in an almost child-like voice, "She spoke
in English. I know she did. She said very clearly and distinctly,
`Saint Michael, save me.'"

He paused and his voice became not much more than a whisper. "I mocked
her with her own words."  Then he spoke in a mocking, sing-song voice,
"`Saint Michael, save me. Saint Michael, save me. Saint Michael, save
me.'"

He stopped and suddenly looked around the room as if in terror of what
he might see. "That's when he first appeared... or at least that is
when he first spoke. He may have been standing there in the darkness
for much longer than that, but it was not until he spoke from the
darkness behind me that we knew of his presence.

"It was a very pleasant and polite voice. `Thank you Mr. Summerfield,'
he said. `A single voice may call upon me a thousand times, and I am
helpless to act, but when the seventh voice calls my name for the
third time on the day of the dead, I am bound to intercede.'"

Marvin sat very quietly with his eyes closed and his head tilted
slightly upward. He was seeing something in his memory as he spoke.
"He was a very handsome young man... and very polite. He said that
since it was now after midnight, it was the day of the dead and he
could act to bring vengeance and justice.

"`You must choose,' he said."

"`Choose what?' I replied.

"`Which young woman,' he answered. `The vengeance I bring is this, you
must change places with the one whom you have harmed.' He turned to
point at each of us. `Each of you must choose.'

"`And if we don't?' Harold said defiantly.

"`The choice will be made,' he answered. `If not by you, then by me.'"

Marvin Summerfield's eyes were now wide and almost pleading. "None of
the others would choose. I knew that we were doomed, and thought
perhaps I could lessen the intensity of my punishment by my choice.
`Number four,' I said quickly, remembering that she had, at least
received pleasure from her pain. The others remained silent.

"After a long silence the polite stranger spoke. `So it shall be,' he
said.

"Suddenly I was against the wall... but I was not me. When he had
said, `change places,' I thought that it would be done to me as I had
done to her, but it was more than that. I  was her. It was me against
that wall, but I was in her body. The entire evening was replayed as
if it were some demented movie."

He stared at me with wide open eyes.  His face quivered. Again a
memory was going through his mind, but this memory he was not
savoring. "And then it repeated... again, and again, and again, and
again. Seven times I was stripped. Seven times I was fondled. Seven
times I was raped. Seven times I was lashed with the snake's tongue.
Seven times I was forced to orgasm by my thirst for pain."

His voice had climbed in intensity and pitch as he spoke. His words
again dissolved into that hideous, maniacal laughter which had been
bubbling under the surface throughout the interview. It seemed to go
on for hours until it finally faded into silence.

"And then it was morning," he said flatly. "The others were screaming
and holding their heads. Jane ran upstairs screaming and yelling in
absolute terror. Harold clutched his chest and fell to the floor.
Marie, Frank, and Sharon fell to their knees and began pounding their
heads against the floor and screaming until their voices finally
failed them."

He was suddenly very calm and looked almost normal as he said to me,
"People said I was lucky to have survived." 

Then he laughed, not quite so crazily this time, and said, "Jane and
Harold were the lucky ones. It was over for them.

"In a way it was also over for Marie, Frank, and Sharon. Their minds
were totally gone. They have spent the past four decades basically
unaware of their true punishment. Even if they remember as our
punishment comes to a close, at least all they must endure is the
memory of that night."

He looked at me with pleading eyes. "For me it has been more than a
memory. I became her, and when I returned to being me, I had more than
the memory of her pain. I brought back into myself her thirst for
pain... her need for pain... her addiction to pain which I had
released within her that night."

He held out his hands. There were bruises around his wrists.
"Sometimes I can go a week before the hunger becomes too great," he
said in a shaking voice. "Sometimes it is every night that I must
succumb to my addiction.  When I can stand it no longer, I order my
maid and butler to tie me to that wall and lash me with the snake's
tongue until I finally find release."

He wept. These were tears of despair not mania. "I do not want it. I
do not desire it. But I  need that pain as surely as a heroin addict
needs his daily fix." 

He snorted, "They have come to enjoy it. Sometimes as I am hanging
there afterwards, I can hear them having sex in the darkness behind
me."

He drew in a deep breath. "Seven years for each of the six girls. That
was my sentence from that terrible angel of vengeance... seven years
without release from the hell I, alone, had created."

He paused and smiled again. "I will be released soon. One more year
and I will be released. One more year and then you can tell my story.
Remember, one more year... but not until then."

He sat back in his chair and became silent. The morose butler appeared
by my side and said quietly, "I think it is time that you should
leave."

I picked up my cell phone and recorder from the table and followed him
to the entrance. As I left the mansion my heart was very heavy.  I had
more than enough for my interview. It was not recorded, but I have a
precise memory. I could write out what was spoken verbatim when I got
home... but would I?

What purpose would it serve? No one would ever publish it! No one
would ever believe me. And why should they? After all my hopes and
expectation, all I had were the delusional ramblings of a sick, old
man.

To my editor and others who knew that I was coming here tonight for an
interview, I would explain that it had been hard to view the
disintegrated shell of what had once been such a powerful and great
man. I would tell them that it had been troubling to see what the
ravages of age could do to such a brilliant mind. So, out of respect
for all that Marvin H. Summerfield had once been, I would tell only of
what he had once accomplished, not what he had currently become.

Such a non-interview wouldn't get published either.

As I reached my car, a soft voice spoke from next to me. "You have my
permission to tell the story once Marvin is gone. That will be just
before next Halloween."

He laughed slightly. It was a chilling laugh, but I could not say why.
He continued in a slightly stronger voice. "In fact, I insist that you
tell it."

I turned and there was a very handsome young man standing next to me.
"And you are?" I said somewhat angrily.

"Names are so unimportant," he replied in his calm, sweet voice. "All
that is important is that you release the story."

I replied, "My editor will never publish it."

He laughed again and pushed his finger against the pocket of my coat.
For the slightest of moments it looked as if his hand were just
skeletal bones pressing against my jacket.

My smart phone chimed, beeped and chirped all at the same time. "I
sent you some links," he explained. "Post the story on those sites.
They all have contests for Halloween. They will publish it even if
your editor will not."

His voice changed. It became higher pitched and almost cold as he
said. "In fact, I insist that you publish this story as a warning to
others. Remember, you have until the day of the dead next year. If I
do not see it on all of those sites, I will return."

"Who are you?" I asked.  This time it was not so much a question as a
statement of shock and fear.

He smiled at me and said, "My ancient name is "Mictlantecuhtli" or
"Mictecacihuatl" if you would rather think of me as a woman.  When the
invaders stole my people's native tongue, I became known as "Santa
Muerte." As he turned and began to walk away, he added, "... but you
can call me Michael."

The handsome young man was gone. In his place was a robed figure
walking away from me. As he walked, I could see skeletal feet beneath
the robe and skeletal hands protruding from the sleeves. He turned
again to face me- if you could call what turned to me a face. An old
woman's voice came from the skull within the hood. "Remember, the
story must be told before next year's day of the dead."

He... she... it... laughed once again.  The image of the open mouth of
that skull as it laughed is burned into my memory forever . So are the
final words it spoke, "... or you will find out what it means to
receive a visit from Saint Michael."

                                                            ***

That is the true story of what happened at that infamous Halloween
party behind the gates of hell at the mansion called The Dungeon of
Hedonism. Perhaps I should have warned you at the beginning not to
read it aloud... especially not to say the names aloud... most
especially not to repeat Mickey-choo-choo or Santa Morty or Saint
Michael aloud... and most, most especially not to do so after midnight
when Halloween becomes The Day of the Dead.

Who knows? You might be the seventh person to repeat those names on
that day. And believe me, you do NOT want a visit from Saint Michael.


 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = 
END OF STORY
 = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+