Sylvia Marie Likens (3 enero 1949 hasta 26 octubre 1965) fue una víctima de asesinato americano. Ella fue torturada hasta la muerte por Gertrude Baniszewski , hijos de Baniszewski, y otros jóvenes de su barrio. Sus padres, que eran trabajadores de carnaval, habían dejado Likens y su hermana Jenny en el cuidado de la familia Baniszewski tres meses antes de su muerte a cambio de $ 20 a la semana.
Baniszewski, su hija Paula, su hijo Juan, y dos jóvenes del barrio (Coy Hubbard y Richard Hobbs) fueron acusados y condenados por el crimen. La tortura y el asesinato Likens 'fueron descritos por el fiscal en el juicio de Baniszewski como "el más terrible crimen jamás cometido en el estado de Indiana
Lester Likens acordó pagar Baniszewski $ 20 por semana, pero cuando este estipendio era tarde, Baniszewski, descrito por The Indianapolis Star como "demacrado, bajo peso asmático " [ 5 ] que sufre de la depresión y el estrés de varios matrimonios fallidos, comenzó a tomar su enojo a cabo en las niñas compara, golpeándolos con las paletas.
Baniszewski pronto centró su abuso exclusivamente en Sylvia, acusándola de robar caramelos que había comprado en una tienda de comestibles, y humillando a ella cuando ella admitió que ella una vez que tenía un novio. Paula, que estaba embarazada en ese momento, dio una patada en los genitales Likens y la acusó de estar embarazada, aunque el examen médico posterior demostró que Sylvia no estaba y no podía haber sido [ 6 ] .
Sylvia más tarde fue acusado de difundir rumores a través de Arsenal Technical High School que Paula y Stephanie eran prostitutas ; esto supuestamente provocó el novio de Stephanie, Coy Hubbard, a atacar físicamente a Sylvia. La señora Baniszewski animó Hubbard y otros niños del vecindario para atormentar Likens, incluyendo, entre otras cosas, la extinción de cigarrillos en su piel y la obligó a quitarse la ropa e inserte un vaso de Coca-Cola botella en su vagina por lo menos en dos ocasiones. [ 5 ]
Después de vencer a Sylvia para obligarla a confesar el robo de un traje de gimnasio de la escuela que Baniszewski no compraría para ella (y sin la cual no pudo asistir a la clase de gimnasia) Baniszewski la mantuvo fuera de la escuela y le prohibió salir de la casa. Cuando Sylvia orinó en su cama , ella se encerró en el sótano y se le prohibió usar el baño. Más tarde, se vio obligada a consumir sus propias heces y orina. Poco antes de Sylvia murió, Baniszewski comenzó a tallar las palabras "soy una prostituta y orgulloso de él!" en el estómago de Sylvia con una aguja calentada, aunque Richard Hobbs terminó la talla. Hobbs y 10 años de edad, Shirley Baniszewski también utilizaron un atizador de hierro en un intento de quemar la letra "S" en el pecho de Sylvia, aunque la quemadura parecía que el número "3". [ 7 ]
Sylvia trató de escapar de la noche antes de su muerte después de escuchar el plan de Baniszewski a vendarle los ojos [ 7 ] y dejarla en el bosque de Jimmy, una zona boscosa cercana, pero cuando llegó a la puerta de entrada, Baniszewski la atrapó y la castigó por atarla en el sótano y dando sus únicas galletas para comer. El 26 de octubre de 1965, después de múltiples golpes, quemaduras y baños hirvientes, Sylvia Marie Likens murió de una hemorragia cerebral , conmoción y la desnutrición . [ 5 ] Ella tenía 16 años.
Cuando Stephanie Baniszewski y Richard Hobbs se dieron cuenta de que Sylvia no estaba respirando, Stephanie intentó dar Sylvia respiración boca a boca antes de darse cuenta de que era inútil y que Sylvia estaba muerto. [ 8 ]
Los chicos pasarían dos años de prisión. En 1971, Paula y Gertrude Baniszewski se les concedió otro ensayo. Paula se declaró culpable de homicidio voluntario y fue puesto en libertad dos años más tarde. [ 5 ] Gertrude, sin embargo, fue de nuevo condenado por asesinato en primer grado. Ella se acercó a la libertad condicional en 1985, ya pesar de una protesta pública y peticiones en contra de su liberación, la junta de libertad condicional tomó su buen comportamiento en prisión en cuenta, y fue puesta en libertad.
Gertrude Baniszewski cambió su nombre por el de Nadine van Fossan, sus segundos nombres y soltera, y se trasladó a Laurel, Iowa , donde murió de cáncer de pulmón el 16 de junio de 1990. Cuando Jenny Likens, que estaba entonces casado y vive en Beech Grove , Indiana , vio su obituario en el periódico, que recorta y enviado por correo a su madre con la nota: "..!. Una buena noticia Maldita vieja Gertrude murió Ja, ja, ja, estoy feliz por eso" [ 10 ] Jenny Likens Wade murió de un ataque al corazón el 23 de junio de 2004, a los 54 años La casa en 3850 East New York Street, en la que Sylvia Likens fue torturado y asesinado situó vacante y deteriorado durante gran parte de los 44 años después del asesinato. Aunque hubo alguna discusión sobre la compra de la casa para la renovación en un refugio para mujeres , los fondos necesarios que nunca se plantearon. La casa fue demolida el 23 de abril de 2009. [ 11 ] La propiedad se convertirá en un estacionamiento de la iglesia. [ 10 ]
Richard Hobbs murió de cáncer de pulmón a los 21 años, cuatro años después de haber sido dado de alta del reformatorio. [ 12 ]
Después de la masacre de Westside Middle School , John Baniszewski, por entonces se hacía llamar John Blake, hizo una declaración afirmando que los delincuentes jóvenes no están más allá de la ayuda y la descripción de la forma en que se había convertido su vida. [ 13 ] Murió en el Hospital General en Lancaster , Pennsylvania después de una larga enfermedad con la diabetes el 19 de mayo de 2005, a la edad de 52, dejando una esposa y tres hijos. [ 14 ]
Coy Hubbard, el novio de Stephanie Baniszewski que venció a Sylvia y practicó su judo voltea hacia ella, había estado entrando y saliendo de la cárcel desde su puesta en libertad y más tarde fue acusado y absuelto del asesinato de dos hombres. Murió de un ataque al corazón el 23 de junio de 2007, a la edad de 56 en Shelbyville , Indiana. Tenía una esposa y cinco hijos, 17 nietos y un bisnieto. [ 15 ]
1971 ficha policial de Paula Baniszewski
Paula Baniszewski, a los 17 años el mayor de 7 hijos de Gertrude, recibió una sentencia de veinte años a cadena perpetua por su participación en la muerte de Sylvia. La hija Gertrudis que ella dio a luz en la cárcel fue posteriormente adoptado . Paula intentó sin éxito escapar dos veces de la cárcel en 1971. [ 16 ] En 1972, ella salió en libertad condicional y asumió una nueva identidad. Con el tiempo se casó y tiene dos hijos; Según los informes, ella vive en una pequeña ciudad en Iowa en la actualidad. [ 17 ] [ mejor fuente necesaria ] Baniszewski trabajó como ayudante a un consejero de la escuela durante 14 años en el distrito escolar Beaman-Conrad-Liscomb-Unión-Whitten (BCLUW) en Iowa, teniendo cambió su nombre por el de Paula Pace y mintieron al distrito escolar al aplicar para el trabajo. Ella fue despedido en 2012 cuando descubrió la escuela
What you are about to read was posted on 4chan's paranormal /x/ board on Halloween day of 2013 by an unknown user by the name of prozac101. Being a daily visitor to /x/, I was one of the first people to reply to the girl's post, and I think it's best that I tell you now that I was thoroughly disturbed by what I had read, probably the most I had been in a long time. It's kind of hard for me to explain the strange feelings I got, but there was something quite different about her story, due to the fact that I couldn't stop thinking about it for days after it had been first posted on the board. Just to make everything clear, I am not entirely the original author of this piece, just merely an anonymous editor that felt that it was his duty to share prozac101's story even further with the world.
Story
Hey /x/
Just thought that I'd share a couple of spooky stories from my childhood, to get everyone all hyped for Halloween.
When I was a child, it was just me and my mother. We lived in a property owned by my grandma, a three story, old farmhouse right at the fringe of the woods. It was far off the road, down a long, unlit, gravel driveway―it felt very isolated at night, being so distant from any other houses, set in an area that hadn't been inhabited for thirty years before we started living in it. Quite often, I was a fairly rambunctious child, so while my mom went off to work, I would occasionally skip the morning bus to school and stay home alone all day. The big house had a habit of feeling incredibly lonely and sparse, so I spent most of my time playing in the forest expanse out back. Some distance into the woods, far enough that I couldn't hear my mother when she called, there was a toppled pine tree which had crashed into another―an even larger trunk on its way down was now frozen there, forming a long arc over the forest floor. I loved to climb up the jagged stump at the base of this fallen tree and then steady myself to a point just above the middle. I was never able to make it all the way to the top because it just got too steep for me to continue any further, and I had a bad habit of freaking out from how high up I was.
One day I was sitting in my usual spot on the fallen tree, which was a good distance from the ground, just listening to the birds singing and simultaneously feeling the warmth of the sun on my neck, when I heard something strange from underneath that paralyzed me in shock:
"Hey kid."
I was gripped by a sudden strong surge of fear for a moment. The voice had come from directly underneath me. I strained to look down, but couldn't see anything over the ledge. For a long time I just sat there in absolute silence, and I was at the point where I was almost soon to convince myself that I had imagined hearing a man's voice at all.
"I know you can hear me."
His voice was much louder this time, as I yelled something out, and scrambled up the log a bit higher. Trembling nervously, I dug my fingernails into the bark and held tight for dear life. I sat there, trying to collect my nerves for god knows how long. Although I couldn't see it, the presence of the thing underneath me was still clear. The bird song was much softer and more cautious this time, and when I listened closely, I swear I could hear the faintest echo of human breathing. Gathering all my courage, I vowed to prove to myself that it was all my imagination by leaning over the ledge as far as I possibly could without slipping right off. Digging hard into the bark behind me, I stretched out along my arms and peered over, getting a full view of the empty forest floor and undergrowth, when suddenly―
"―COME DOWN HERE OR I'LL COME UP AND GRAB YOU!"
It was so loud, it was as if it was being screamed right in my face. I released my grip on the tree in fright and plunged off the platform. I was saved only by grabbing a nearby branch, and for one awful second, my bare legs dangled in the cool air. When I pulled myself up, I ran at full speed to the top of the collapsed pine, to the point I had never reached before. I sat there, just below the rustling canopy, pissing myself and staring at the distant base where the splintered wood rose, fully expecting at any moment to see someone crawling rapidly up the pine towards me. Instead, all I heard was the wind whistling in the leaves above and below me, and occasional snippets of birdsong. It was about two hours before my mother got home and found me, after much worried searching, trembling, and crying at the top of the fallen tree.
Although this incident spooked both me and mother, in time I somehow recovered, exhibiting that naive hard skin of a child, although I never went as far into the forest as I used to, and never again even approached that fallen tree. Once when I was twelve, I had the chore of taking firewood from the shed out back (just at the edge of the woods) and to bring it back inside the house. It was a tiresome job, and I always chose to do it at dusk when the air was brimming with mosquitoes and a swampy fog that usually coated the lawn. By the time I had made my last round, I would sprint back to the house, spooked. One of my least favourite things about this job was that the shed was full of barn owls (if you have ever seen a barn owl's face staring at you from a dark roof corner, then you will know how uncomfortable that shed made me).
One of these nights it got mistier than it had ever been before. A thick silver fog covered everything and limited my line of sight to a short sphere around me. Even though the shed wasn't far from the house, I found myself feeling disoriented, and more than once I walked in the wrong direction, both times for some reason walking straight into the woods. By the time I had reached my last load, it was too foggy to see the street. My eyes stung in the moisture and it made my vision blur. Lurching forward, I managed to walk headfirst into a tree, doubling over and dropping all of the wood I was bundling onto my feet with a hard crunch. As I went to pick them up, with my foot throbbing pretty hard, I realized that the ground was too misty for me to see my own knees. I decided to head to the house, since we had more than enough wood for one night. However, it was getting to be pretty dark and I couldn't make out any signifiers of which direction I was heading in. Even though I cautiously walked for several feet in all directions, trying to figure out my position in the mists, I still couldn't figure out any point of identification.
I couldn't even locate the fence or the gate, and the more I walked, the more I seemed to stumble into trees, pine needles and mud crunching under my feet instead of dew-covered lawn. After a while, I finally realized that I couldn't even find the shed any more. Cursing myself for being so dumb (while trying to ignore my thumping heart and sense that something else was at play) I became aware that I was lost somewhere in the fringe of the forest. Screaming out for my mother at the loudest possible volume was only met with a resounding silence from the depths of the mist all around from where I stood, affirming that I had wandered too far from the house to be heard. As a deep panic started to settle on me, I noticed a glimpse of something pink moving against a nearby pine trunk. Coming closer I saw that it was a ripped-out square of pink paper. On it there was an arrow, pointing left. Looks vaguely like something my mom might make, I rationalized, to keep me from getting lost. So, foolishly, I followed the direction set by that green arrow, shivering in the increasing cold.
I kept walking for about five to ten minutes before needing to stop to take a breath. My heart was pounding so fast, it was beginning to hurt. As I was sitting down, however, I spied what appeared to be another note fluttering on a nearby trunk. I noticed that this one was embedded with a long nail. It bore another arrow, this one pointing up, and a small, sloppily written note that said "THIS WAY". Despite my increasing panic, I convinced myself that these notes were my only shot at getting back before nightfall. I was desperate to get the hell out and my brow was cold with sweat. So I followed the green arrow, to a point where I could just dimly make out another spot of pink, up an incline of collapsed stumps and leaf litter.
At this point it was getting pretty dark, and I had to strain both my eyes just to see a few meters ahead of me. Following the green arrows, feeling less and less sure of where I was, I stumbled through the woods, groping out in the mist to feel for trees (although I was terrified of something unseen grabbing my arm). I came across the third green note, which had another arrow pointing up again, this one lead to an increasingly steep slope that I didn't recognize being anywhere near my house, and with a poorly drawn smiley face right above it. At this stage, I became too freaked to cope and started to cry there a little. As I slumped against the pine stump, the possibility that I would be out in these woods all night was beginning to sink in, like a syringe being driven into the veins within my arm. I caught a glimpse of another pink square in the near distance. Squinting hard, unnerved by these notes, all of which looked fresh and without sign of decay despite the previous week's nonstop rain, I read it from afar.
What I read made my blood turn cold. I stood to my knees, dead silently, wobbling on them in fear. My ears were sensitive to any tiny prickle of noise in the mist. For a long time, I stood there in the rolling fog, reading and re-reading that horrible note over and over again, before a snapping stick somewhere behind me caused me to sprint, blindly, twigs snagging at my ankles and cutting up my face as I ran. Written on the note, in big green letters, was my name. It felt like I was running for hours, all the while, the rain and mist lapped at the back of my neck like the decaying breath of someone running right behind me. Somehow I made it back to the house. All the lights were off, and I struggled to find the keys for a moment. When I found them, I bolted indoors and quickly crawled into bed where I remained, unsleeping till morning. Mom just thought I'd come inside and gone to bed, and hadn't thought to leave the lights on. It was a miracle, aka some freakish coincidence that I even found the house at all. The final "incident" at that damn house was witnessed only by my mother. Up until then she had never experienced any of the strange things as I had, although we mutually shared the peculiar oppressive quality that the house's interior had on us, and its placement in the dreary, imposing woods.
Although I was obviously never a popular kid, by living way out in the country in the opposite direction from everyone else at my school, I did make some tight friends in my first year of high school. One of these friends, Amanda was her name, invited me over one night and I accepted. My mother drove me out to the place, which was about three miles away, then drove back home. The night went well. We watched a horror movie (suitably), devoured some pizza and probably smoked a little pot. My mother went home alone where she intended to get some writing done. She worked for a magazine at that point. It was about midnight when I received an off-putting text from Mom in all caps:
IS THIS A PRANK I NEED TO KNOW IMMEDIATELY
Thinking it was some kind of joke I texted back: calm urself, is what a prank?
Almost immediately the response:
R U AT THE HOUSE
Of course I responded "No", though I was thoroughly weirded out. I didn't receive another message until around 3 AM, when she told me to go to my grandma's in the morning and to NOT, BY ANY MEANS, dare go home.
I remember those bleak torrents of rain the day I went to my grandmother's, and how terribly soaked I was when I finally got there. It was nearly two towns away. I'd had to fight the temptation to go home and drop off my bags, but Mom's disturbing messages from last night were enough of a warning not to do so. When I arrived, Mom and Grandma were having lunch. At first, my mother seemed to be in some sort of a composed state, but when I got a better look at her, I noticed that all of the color had drained from her face and she was slightly trembling. At one point she even sent a small glass crashing to the floor after flinching at the cat brushing around her ankles. It wasn't until later that night, when my grandma was sound asleep, that she told me what happened. She went further as to forbid me from telling old grandma, out of fear that it would horrify her superstitious soul too much.
This was what happened the night when I was at Amanda's, as she described in lurid detail. My mother was sitting on the first story in the living room, where she sat on the couch by the fire; curtains open to the view of the sunset on the canopy, going over her latest draft. At first it was so faint that she barely noticed it, but after a while my mother became aware of, and vaguely irritated by, tiny thumping noises near her head, at the window. When she went over to investigate, she saw fat brown moths of a kind we often got at that place, buzzing madly into the glass. Reasoning that this was the cause of the sound, she returned to her work, however feeling rattled in some way. It was when the noises started to get sharper and louder that she paid more attention and saw that rocks were being thrown at the window from the total blackness of the forest edge.
She saw them appear from the shadows of the bush, and then fall in an arc and bounce off the window. Looking carefully she could see small cracks from where some heavy ones had hit, right beside where her head had been moments before. Temporarily captivated, she tried to peer into the darkness enough to make out where the rocks were being thrown from. Then with a startled shock, she jumped back from the window as she saw me standing half behind a tree right near the window, grinning wide and staring at her, my one visible eye stretched wide open, showing all the white. She barely stifled a scream seeing her own daughter standing there, just staring and smiling. Not only did the figure not move nor blink, it was standing by one of the nearest pines, far from where the rocks were shooting up out of the bush, as they continued to do so in a loud downpour. My face unceasingly continued to press out at her, smiling.
Thinking this was all some kind of sick prank (hence the later text), my mother shouted my name at the top of her lungs, frightened to the core. However instead of responding, the mouth of the thing (that looked like me) behind the tree just started moving as if it were mouthing silent words really, really fast. Suddenly it turned its head to the side and seemed to be talking to someone else behind the tree, my mom said, who couldn't be seen. But she could see a formless black shape hanging against the other side of the tree. The girl that looked like me kept staring at my mother and doing the silent speed-talking thing, then turning and whispering to the thing next to her. Then she would turn back and start up again. Then breaking the monotonous spell, she suddenly pointed straight at my mother and started laughing. My mother screamed and fled to my bedroom on the second story (the only room with a working lock) where she shut herself in and sat at the far end of the bed as the rocks began to pitter patter against the window downstairs, dry-heaving and weeping in fear.
In my room, my mother said she did not feel safe. There was an awful smell, and a weird humming noise in the walls, as she described. She tried to pray for a time before giving up and just listening to the rocks pelt the walls and windows (somewhere in the kitchen, she caught the distinct, vibrant sound of a window actually smashing) and the weird, continuous humming. Listening more carefully she could identify it as the softest hint of a mumbling voice. In absolute horror, she recognized the voice and then, virtually too afraid to look, she tilted her head up to the closet door where an awful white face could be seen staring right at her, mouth contorting and gaping in what sounded like highly sped up whispering.
The closet door was only a meter from my mother.
It started to open slowly.
In an unimaginable explosion of terror, she immediately bolted to the door, only to fumble with the lock as bigger and bigger rocks came crashing through the window, which burst apart in a spray of glass shards, before finally getting out, running out of the house, completely keeping her eyes off the woods, getting into her car and driving off. She said that as she glanced back, right at the end of the prolonged drive, she saw two unmistakable human forms standing at my broken bedroom window, watching as her car got further and further away from our house. This would be their final farewell, as my mother never stepped foot in that place again. As my mother told this story she broke down into tears. I didn't doubt her and I still don't. I honestly, and fully believe that she experienced what she says she did. It was also quite clear that we were done living in that house for once, and for all.
I only went back once, with my dad who I see very rarely now. He came from another state to help us move. Mom had already found a place in town and moved in. My dad and I just loaded up his truck with all that was left inside there. It was a silent, sunny morning when we removed all the stuff and emptied the place. I wish I could say there was some closure, some final spooking to cap it all off but there wasn't. It was just a relief to be out of there. There are however, only two things left worth mentioning:
1. When we checked the house for any signs of intruders we found that several windows, including one in my bedroom and the kitchen, had been smashed and rocks were lying on the floor.
2. Dad went out into the trees for a bit to take a leak. When he came back he asked how long we'd had the swing set for. Needless to say we'd never had a swing set so I was fairly unsettled to discover that in the week since we'd been gone someone had assembled a rope swing set from one of the highest branches of the old pine over the ridge, against which was the fallen log I'd stopped climbing many years ago.
It was obviously new rope, and a nicely polished, sanded down wooden seat at the base. Dad, wanting to keep my mind from recent events (he doubted the affair and thought my mother was unstable), said that a neighbour probably set it up, not realizing it was on our property. Of course he knew as well as I did that we had no neighbours for at least a mile in any direction. There were no houses in all that space, and never in my time living there did I ever see any other signs of human habitation. But I let it all go and was pleased enough just to say good riddance to that horrible place as we drove off for good. For the most part I've found it best to try and forget what happened at that place. Sometimes I just can't help but ponder it, though. It's been long enough now that I no longer feel scared talking about it, but for a long while I couldn't.
Seeing as it is Halloween, what better time to share? My grandma just recently sold the house to a new family, a young couple and their little son, shortly after we moved out, despite my mother's insistence that it be left empty. Now she refuses to talk about what happened altogether. I'm less anxious about it, although sometimes I can't help but let my imagination get the better of me. All I can do is think of that old house, the fallen down tree, the new occupants, and the swing out back, gently spinning in the breeze as that little boy toddles obliviously towards it.
Many doubt the word of the lord, but my congregation and I know the power of his mercy. Once this land was blighted and infertile, but our lord heard our prayers and saw fit to bless us with a bountiful harvest year after year, such is the fruit of our devotion. If the lord does not hear the prayers of others it is because they have lost their way, given in to temptation or forsaken the old ways for a “softer” more “modern” faith. Our god is a lord of mercy, but he is also a lord of sacrifice. To truly earn his favor, one must live a life of piousness and poverty. One must turn away from the marvel and glamor of the modern world, knowing that only through his glory can true, lasting happiness be achieved.
Before he saw fit to bestow his miracle onto our humble town there was rampant poverty and hunger. Our poor soil could not yield good harvest, and without crops for ourselves or our livestock, we were forced to purchase our food from outsiders, often at exorbitant prices. There was little industry in the town, many could not afford their daily bread. The church did what we could, but at times we strained to feed even our own mouths. When times seemed darkest, I would often refuse my supper so that a less fortunate soul may eat that evening, choosing instead to take long walks though the church grounds, stopping occasionally to pray to our lord for guidance. One cold winter’s eve, as I pray beside an old hand dug well on the north east corner of the grounds, my prayers were answered and I heard the voice of our lord! He said unto me that our prayers had been heard and will be answered. All that he asks is a display of faith, an offering. So it is that each year on the 5th of December, my congregation gathers to lower our offering into that blessed well, so that the lord may bless us with bountiful harvest in the coming year.
No good deed goes unnoticed it seems, by both our lord and our adversary. The devil sees our devotion and grows angry, jealous of the offerings we bestow upon our lord. Ordinarily we would merely offer bread and wine, but Mrs. Evens gave birth to three beautiful boys that September, and we wanted to ensure they would not want for anything in the coming year, so a live hen was lowered, and that is when the nightmares began. Visions of winged monsters made of white hot fire, speaking in tongues we could not understand. The whole town was having them. We agreed that the best course of action was to stand against the devil, and show the lord that even when faced with such terrors, our devotion was stronger than ever! Offerings became more frequent. Three Decembers since the nightmares began we had moved on from chickens and bread to sacrificing lambs and cattle, but still the nightmares persisted, the weather became harsh and a gloom overtook the town. The devil’s strength has begun to lead members of my flock astray. They look at their brothers and sisters as if they are monsters. They accuse us of haven been lead astray from gods word. The poor fools, they cannot even see the irony in their words. Still, it is not their fault, the devil has tricked many men wiser and more devout in the past.
Last night as I pray before the well, as has been my custom since that December night those many years ago, an angel was reviled to me. Its eyes glowed like the evening sun, as its mouths spoke the will of the lord. The hold of the adversary on our little town would be lifted! All the lord asks in return is for us to bless the well with one last sacrifice, greater than a steer and far greater than any lamb. With claw extended the angel gave to me a daggar, carved from the bones of a past sacrifice. It is with this holy blade that I am to make the final offering, the souls of the Evens boys. Mrs. Evens and her husband fell away from the grace of the lord and left our congregation late last year. She will not give her boys to us easily, but hopefully when this is all over she will see that we do this for her. For everyone. For the glory of our lord, blessed be his names.
En la cima de aquella escarpada montaña, en el éxtasis de la noche , rodeado de brujos infernales, de velas cubiertas de sangre virgen y pura, cuerpos mutilados yacientes, fingiendo una atmósfera de tranquilidad…un paraje desolador para nuestro sabio.Belial, amo supremo de esta historia, sería el encargado de traer, desde la realidad del Mal a un ser que cambiaría el mundo.Este espectro de vida atraería a la mugre, a la muchedumbre de un lugar donde la soledad, la violación de la felicidad y la tortura del alma eran el pan de cada día...era nuestro vampiro, contra el que yo, Lady Brandia, diosa de la lujuria y del deseo, pero bruja por vocación, debería matar, nunca creí que llegase a ser tan difícil ,nunca pensé que dejaría de ser quien soy por no ser fiel a la carroña y a la maldad que llevaba dentro de mí desde el día en que aquella mendiga llena de poder me trajo al mundo, abandonándome bajo los pies de unos lobos, con la esperanza de que yo muriese, con la esperanza de que mis ojos no vieran más que sus afilados dientes.Pero lo que aquella mendiga dudaba es que esta oscura dama, esta bruja de la magia negra, acabaría con aquellos animales con sólo una mirada.Juré venganza y lo hice…años después logré ver a esa mujer que pensó que había conseguido despojarme de mis poderes, y con ellos, de mis deseos…ingenua.Siendo yo todavía virgen de corazón, agarré a esa mujer, conjurando a la vez un hechizo que me haría indestructible, hasta un punto que ni me podría imaginar…la maté , sí y llegué al éxtasis de la felicidad al notar que su corazón no latía, que sus ojos se perdían en un abismo del que nunca más saldrían, que su sangre helada quedaría de bebida para algún sediento animal que la engulliría, le sacaría la piel a tiras cuan árbol pierde sus hojas poco a poco en otoño…Esa muerte hizo crecer en mí un poder y a la vez un castigo...el Dios del Mal hizo caer sobre mí una desdicha, al deshacerme de la mujer que a mí me dio la vida, yo sería incapaz de amar, mi corazón estaría helado, frío de sensaciones, muerto…para siempre; o eso creía yo.Pero no debemos de pararnos tanto en mi vida como en el futuro que me esperaba al enfrentarme a la criatura más maléfica que ha creado el señor Lucifer en toda su historia. Ayudado por Belial,(curioso, si, dirán ustedes, mis expectantes lectores, pero aunque muchos crean que Belial recrea al mismo Lucifer, están equivocados, uno es la reencarnación del otro, pero cada uno con más poder aún si cabe)había traído a la frágil realidad del mundo de los humanos a ese vampiro con deseos de sangre, vano de conciencia, inútil de compasión. Sólo estaba preparado para matar, para aniquilar a todo aquel que se cruzase en su camino, a todo aquel que se interpusiera en su destino..exterminar para siempre al mundo de la brujería, pues para sus maestros , este mundo era el único capaz de interponerse en su monopolio para controlar el lado oscuro.Este ser , disfrazado bajo una careta y un cuerpo humano, guardaba para sus ataques una apariencia que asustaría a cualquier criatura en la faz de cualquier realidad.Ojos perdidos en un abismo indescriptible, manos mugrientas, boca desdichada, sin dientes, pero con colmillos afilados para ser fiel a la tradición, cuerpo vigoroso ante la atenta mirada de mis pupilas llenas de terror..tenía el aspecto de Orco, cuan personaje de un juego, pero esta vez para mí era de verdad, debería enfrentarme a una entelequia que me superaba en tamaño, en fuerza, tal vez en sabiduría, pero no en astucia. Sabía que mis posibilidades eran nulas si no usaba mis armas como bruja, pero Lady Tymora se negaba a mirarme a los ojos, estaba de espaldas, y no tenía la intención de ayudarme.Todo este aspecto lo conseguí ver a través de mi mente,sentí el miedo meterse por mis venas al notar su presencia, notarlo tan cerca…pero algo raro pasaba dentro de mí, algo que no había sentido nunca.
Pasé dos noches con sus dos días preparando la pócima perfecta para derrotarlo, para acabar con él, y para lograr así, ser Reina del Mal, como un día, Kashia, compañera y amiga, había llegado a ser.Al tercer día me disponía a salir de mi guarida cuando un joven apuesto me atacó, iba a matarlo con un simple gesto, pero algo me lo impidió. Lo miré fijamente a los ojos, algo que no había hecho jamás, y noté que su mirada no era humana, sus ropajes, oscuros y siniestros como una noche de tinieblas, me dio a ver que era la persona que estaba buscando, era mi vampiro, y él sabía quien era yo.Pasó algo que no supe explicar en ningún momento, este ente no cambió su cuerpo para luchar contra mí, y yo no pude echarle la pócima, la cual cayó al suelo en el momento en el que su mano se unió a la mía.Se acercó tanto a mí que pude notar sus suspiros en mi nuca, su corazón en mi pecho… pero no podía ser, si no llego a ser una bruja pensaría que nos estábamos enamorando..pero no podía ser¿ o si?Pasaron las horas y simplemente nos mirábamos, hasta que llegó un momento en el que el deseo fue mayor que la razón, mi corazón se dilató y fui capaz de amar , lo amé con todas mis fuerzas, lo mismo que él a mi…sentíamos el interior de uno en el otro, no respectamos el pacto, el pacto que me impedía amar y que a él le prohibía tocar a nadie a no ser que lo fuera a devorar, el Mal nos haría pagar nuestro error.Pero nos lo haría pagar de una manera de la que antes de cumplir yo preferiría la muerte..la naturaleza funcionó, y él me mordió…pero no morí, no caí en sus brazos,mi cuerpo estaba muerto sí, pero mi mente no.Ese era mi castigo por amar a alguien , por lograr que mi corazón despertara, por saciar mis deseos de lujuria que tantas veces había ayudado a otros a cumplir…viviría eternamente para ver como cada día , todos aquellos con los que convivía, se iban yendo, se marchaban a un lugar donde la eternidad no existiría, pero sí para mí, sí para mi mente.Él desapareció, sólo quedó de él polvo en el camino, pero antes de marchar, hizo una promesa, no dejaría que nadie destruyera mi mundo, aquel mundo que lo hizo enamorarse de mí, es cómico oír de los labios de una persona que está echa para matar que te ama, pero él era sincero.,pero se fue…Desde aquel día viví eternamente, con la pena de no verlo, con la pena de no estar con nadie a quien conocía , porque a partir de aquella jornada, dejé de ser bruja, el Señor me despojó de mis poderes, por osar jugar con su autoridad, ahora era humana de verdad:sentía el dolor, amaba , lloraba…pero algo me quedaba de todo aquel pasado…una criatura, una niña con el mal en los ojos que pronto sería llamada por la Magia Negra para entregarle sus poderes, y que por la noche, después de media noche, donde las brujas toman el té, se convertiría en un vampiro, en un suculento plato para aquellos brujos sedientos de deseos,pero yo no la abandonaría ante los ojos fríos de unos lobos, no, yo la cuidaría…
Maldición, no se como empezar. Justamente este texto esta basado en la primera oración, soy un escritor frustrado.
28 de febrero
Estúpidos escritores que se creen dios. Tengo en conciencia que si no te sale de adentro...mejor no lo intentes. Tengo en conciencia también que si tienes que leérselo a otra persona antes de que lo entregues, tampoco es conveniente que escribas. Mejor... dedícate a otra cosa, tal vez jugar con tu perro. Estúpido Kevin. Arruinaste mis planes. Debo lastimar mi corazón, arrancándoselo a otras personas, siento que mi alma se esta perdiendo, al perder la de otra persona. Late tan rápido...
-"¿¡dios, por que estás tan alterado!?"- - ¡¡¡idiota!!! ¿donde estas?- -ven, ¡te estoy esperando!-
-en ese estado en el que estoy. No miraría el espejo- -¿cuantas veces puede suicidarse una persona?-
-destrozare cada rincón de mi casa si es necesario- - Kevin. ¿Que opinas? - -¿te estas portando bien?- -será lo ultimo que veras- -¡esto se termino!- -mi final no seré el que escoja yo, sino el escojas tu-
Te haré caso. Dejare de hablar. Ojala pudieras sentir lo que estoy sintiendo yo... Maldición, cuantas veces tengo que pedir perdón. Te odio, voy a estar esperándote.En cuanto vuelvas a mirarme, comerás metal caliente, imagina la condena que te espera
-¿que tan malo puede reaccionar un dios?- -yo no creo en el mal- -yo en tu lugar, hubiera rasado. Serás comida para perros- -¿maldita estúpida, creíste que eras la ultima?-
-maldición, deja de gritar- -no haces otra cosa que empeorar la situación- -descansa en paz- -no lo puedo creer- -te extraño-
Carolina era una niña como cualquier otra. Con actitudes, un poco... personales. Le encantaba embriagarse casi todos los días sin importar la resaca en una noche; para ser mas preciso el 30 de febrero de el 2010.salio con su novio Demian. Fueron a un bar ,creo que estaban celebrando algo, tenían una apariencia muy formal. Yo los estaba observando desde la otra mesa. Ellos tomaban cerveza, yo un whisky doble on the rock. Lo acompañe con un poco de ayuda, oro blanco, mi preferido. Se retiraron del bar a las 3:05 am. Los seguí para completar mi objetivo. En el camino, los note felices. Llegaron a su casa, corrí para alcanzarlos antes de que entren. Saque mi manopla del bolsillo y golpeé fuertemente a Demian, dejándolo inconsciente. Ella, como era de saber, ni siquiera reacciono. Yo tenía mucha calma, así decidí no hablarle a carolina... solo tome el cuerpo de su novio y lo metí a la casa. Con miedo, ella entro , cerro la puerta con llave y me pregunto...
¿que esta pasando? -ya lo sabes, solo que no lo quieres aceptar-
Tome el cuerpo inconsciente y lo golpeé reiteradas veces en la cara, para asegurarme que no despierte. Lo alcé, subí las escaleras, abrí la puerta y lo recosté sobre la cama de su dormitorio. Baje a buscar mis útiles, mis herramientas, fui al baño, lave mis manos y me seque. Fui al living y puse música fuerte. No quería que los vecinos se enteren de lo que iba a suceder. Le pedí a carolina que me acompañe, acepto con gusto. Fuimos al cuarto donde estaba mi pobre presa. Lo sentamos en una silla de madera que había en el dormitorio y atamos de pies y manos, el ya empezaba a recobrar el conocimiento de semejante golpiza que había recibido.
¿¡que esta pasando!? -no debiste meterte a este callejón- llévate todo lo que quieras, pero no me hagas daño -es eso justamente lo que quiero-
¿por que? ¿quien eres? ¿donde esta mi novia? -tu novia esta fuera de la habitación, esperando que acabe contigo para que pueda hacerle el amor sin interrupciones- -me estoy riendo de lo que estoy a punto de hacer contigo-
-tranquilo, no llores, lo único que haces es empeorar las cosas- -voy a cortar todos tus dedos, luego tu nariz, para que conozcas el mal antes de morir-
Salí del cuarto con mi camisa blanca completamente ensangrentada como un "Jason Voorhees”, no me interesa lo que piense Carolina, soy excelente haciendo esto, ella dice que soy un poco desprolijo y bruto. Me di un baño y cambie mi ropa, por una un poco más oscura. Volví al cuarto el ya casi estaba muerto, lo note por la cantidad de sangre en el piso. Termine con mi psicosis de maniaco-depresivo. Corte su cabeza con una cuchilla, solo me costo un poco, decidí llevármela, a Kevin le gustan los detalles
