Troubadour Horror Zone: This is the third part of our new horror/thriller series, featuring creatures or myths. We will be posting a new story each week, written by a different author each time, with an introductory essay on the horror character written by Chris Deal. This week the theme is about the incubus, and the incubus story is written by Craig Wallwork.

Essay on the incubus: by Chris Deal

Humanity has always feared the act of violation, be it of our possessions or our mental wellbeing, but perhaps our greatest fear is the violation of our bodies. We’re afraid of getting mugged, of being killed by a random stranger, but it is a deeper, more violent invasion that haunts us, that of our sexual selves.

Starting in the medieval world, a time of deeply held religion and great superstition, the idea of the incubus and succubus were created to explain a range of situations. These demons were thought to come to a person as they slept and violate them sexually. An incubus would copulate with a woman and a succubus would do the same with a man. Certain beliefs held that these demons were one and the same: the succubus would have sex with a man, take his sperm, then turn into an incubus, and use it to impregnate a woman. It was said that repeated experiences with an incubus or succubus could result in the victim slowly wasting away and dying.

These evil spirits, sometimes called a “demon lover”, were not strict with the way they would take a victim. Sometimes, they would take on a human form and seduce their victim, getting them to participate willingly or with a sort of demonic persuasion, while other times the demon would come to the individual and, essentially, rape the man or woman as they slept. This demonic experience was thought to explain any host of circumstances, from victims of incest who were told the demon took the form of trusted family member, or victims of rape. In the case of women who were pregnant out of wedlock, the explanation of an incubus was often accepted when the reality of the situation was unfathomable. Some even say that the very idea of the incubus and the succubus were held to be the reason behind nocturnal emissions.

It should be noted, in the case of an incubus, that they were said to be identified by an unnaturally cold or misshapen penis, usually very large and sometimes even made of iron or metal. The incubus also had the ability to put anyone else in the house to sleep if the person willingly allowed the demon into their bed.

The idea of the demonic sexual predator is not confined to the European and Christian roots of the incubus. The Popo Bawa, Swahili for “bat wing” for the form it sometimes takes, of Zanzibar and Tanzania, for example, a short of shapeshifter that would attack homes at night, normally starting with subtle activity, like that of a poltergeist, before gradually increasing the intensity of its attacks to physical assaults or even sodomy. Fear of the Popo Bawa is prevalent to this day, with a noted panic around the East African cost in 1995. In Chile, el Trauco is a small dwarf with a strong magic who is able to choose any woman he wants. The woman would then be unable to resist el Trauco. In the case of a pregnancy without a known father, el Trauco would be held to blame. Similar to el Trauco is the Ecuadorian el Tintin, a dwarf who would seduce women by playing guitar outside her home. A rather unique entity would be the Brazilian Boto, a demon that at night would take the form of a very handsome and charming man, and during the day would take the form of a river dolphin. When in human form, the Boto would seduce or kill the woman. One way to spot the Boto in human form was the hat he always wore to hide the airhole on top of his head.

Another phenomenon often confused for the incubus is the Old Hag attack. The Old Hag happens to people when they sleep, and takes the form of a hypnagogic state during which the victim is paralyzed. The sufferer would then feel an immense pressure on their chest, as if someone were sitting there and holding them down. Any number of hallucinations have accompanied these night terrors. Similar to the idea of the Old Hag is the Germanic belief in the alp, which has been likened to both the incubus and the vampire. The alp was a small elf who would mainly attack women, while the female form, the mara or mart, would attack men. The Alp and the mara would sit on the victim’s chest and feed on dreams either by inserting a long tongue into the victim or entering them as a fine mist. Sexual attacks by the alp have been noted, but are said to be rare.

Today, the idea of the incubi and succubae are not as prevalent in popular culture as many other characters of our collective nightmares, but they are by no means absent. Before his days as Captain Kirk in Star Trek, William Shatner starred in the 1965 horror film, “Incubus”, a film noted for being entirely in the constructed language of Esperanto. In the recent adaption of “Beowulf”, Grendel’s mother, portrayed by Angelina Jolie, alluded to the idea of the succubus. Neil Gaiman has used the idea in several books of his, such as “Neverwhere” and “American Gods”. In television, images of the incubus or succubus have been noted in the X-Files, Torchwood, Reaper, Charmed, and even an early episode of South Park. Still, the demon love shows up from time to time in our collective nightmares, in our fear of violation.

Incubus story: The Nazareth House by Craig Wallwork

Five years ago I bought a dog called Rufus from an online personal ad. I read dogs help counteract dominant sympathetic nervous systems. They are calming, and receptive to their owner’s mood. I needed a trigger to help me relax, which in turn, would help strengthen my parasympathetic nervous system. He was a 100 pound Bull Mastiff that, unbeknownst to me, hated the indoors. In the first week, he had ripped up my couch and pissed on nearly every plant and electric appliance I owned. I was supposed to pet him whenever I felt anxious, and he would reciprocate this display of affection by becoming more subservient and relaxed too. Rufus wasn’t into that kind of thing. Rufus wasn’t into anything but destruction and gaining authority over our arrangement. One morning he held me prisoner in my own bathroom for five hours. I eventually rang the RSPSCA, and the next day they took Rufus and all his tyrannical ways from my porch.

I decided soon after Rufus left my life to adopt an animal instead. It was safer, and I could do so without leaving the house. I enquired with several online charities until stumbling on a chimp called Afrika. After poachers killed her parents, The Long Life Trust placed Afrika up for adoption. I have a personalised certificate, full colour photo, and adoption papers with Afrika’s story. I also get twice-yearly updates via letter on her progress. For £20 a month, I assure Afrika a future, food and all the attention she needs to live out her life in a safe, loving environment. For £20 a month, I need never worry I’m going to be held hostage in my own bathroom.

The Nazareth House Foundation wasn’t even asking for £20 a month. If I wanted to adopt the Son of God, all I had to do was write to them, stating my name, address and how best I, and Jesus, could benefit from the adoption. I assumed it was a joke, and not to be taken seriously. The Nazareth House Foundation had obviously gleaned a list of people who had adopted in the past, and had sent out a letter offering this bizarre prospect. I read the letter again, and found an address along with an official looking charity registration number. Most likely one of The Nazareth House Foundation administrators had flipped and wrote it out of spite, or revenge. Maybe they’d been through a difficult time in their lives and lost faith, or something. Who knows? I placed the letter in a drawer, and that’s where it stayed for a further two days until I finally stumbled on it again while ordering take away.

**

Printed under a blurry image of a man with olive skin wearing sunglasses was the quote: Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. And like the adoption plea for Afrika, there was a character testimonial written by Jesus’ current carers:

This is Jesus, a 36-year-old Messiah. He is really neat looking with his big brown eyes and a strong back and legs. With such a sweet temperament, Jesus likes nothing more than to discuss morality and prayer. He also enjoys making things out of wood. He can be a little shy around strangers, but once he gets to know you will turn affectionate. While currently undergoing treatment for alcohol abuse, Jesus is doing well and will be finished at the end of February. Being flogged, mocked, and crucified for aspiring to be the King of the Jews means Jesus needs lots of love and attention. He is looking for a family who will spend much needed time with him and give him plenty of affection to help him grow to be the best God incarnate he can be.

Please note that at this time, The Nazareth House Foundation does not accept legal responsibility for Jesus once the adoption is processed. There can be no returns after the first 5 days.

The minimum age for adopters is 23 years old.

The Nazareth House Foundation will not adopt out Jesus unless you have prior Christian experience or have researched his history thoroughly. We DO NOT place in homes that use an electric fence as the single means of containment. If your garden is fenced in – your fence must be at least 7 feet tall.

To adopt my own personal Messiah would cost me his food, clothing and a weekly allowance of no more than £10 to lessen the chances of Jesus purchasing excessive amounts of alcohol. There would be an initial meeting whereby we could discuss the finer points of the arrangement, and agree how we could help each other. If after that meeting Jesus and I hit it off, The Nazareth House Foundation would endorse the adoption papers, and unlike Afrika, Jesus would come and stay with me. I’m a thirty-six year old woman who hasn’t tasted fresh air in eight years. In the summer of 1997, my father was beaten to death by a group of youths while trying to stop them stealing his collection of porcelain gnomes off the front lawn. Since then I have never left the house we both lived in. Of all the research I’ve done on people like me with agoraphobia, the key to overcoming fear is to strengthen the parasympathetic nervous system. Rufus and Afrika never allowed me to reach further than the porch. They failed. I figure if anyone can help me get outside again, surely there would be no better person to choose than the Son of God.

I wrote back to The Nazareth House Foundation a week after receiving the letter, and it wasn’t long before I received confirmation of my enquiry and the willingness to support their client. Based on my personal character reference, previous adoption experience, and current condition, a “meet and greet” would be arranged in the next week. This would typically be done someplace neutral, a café, or even at the Foundation’s office. However, due to the circumstances involving my condition, Jesus would attend my home address to make things easier.

**

To purge the stale stench of loneliness, I cleaned the house and ordered essence of Wild Forrest potpourri from a website called Spruce Springcleans. Uncertain to Jesus’ dietary requirements, I had a small catering company deliver various foods including Kosher, Vegan, and Halal. I dressed conservatively in a black dress that buttoned up to my neck and ran the full length of my legs so only a pair of black pumps was visible. I tied my hair back and wore no makeup. And while I’m sure Jesus did not expect to be met at the porch door by a woman who looked like a widower in her mid-forties, I was equally taken aback by his appearance. The trials he had overcome with alcohol had left their mark. Burst capillaries pushed up through two sunken cheekbones like a colony of red ants, and eyes that throughout history had been depicted as warm and genial, were now sallow and encased by a halo the colour of volcanic ash.

At that first meeting I offered to make a pot of Camille tea and choice of shortbread, but Jesus refused both. He didn’t say much in those first few moments, choosing instead to trail a grubby looking finger around the embroidered pattern on the armchair like a scolded child. I asked if he was hungry, and he shuck his head. I asked if he’d travelled far, and he scratch vigorously at the bird’s nest of a beard that clung to his chin.

“Christmas Baxter,” he finally said, the words drifting through the silence like a dense fog. “Very festive.”

I agreed and smiled, but the gesture of cordialness seemed premature. I cleared my throat and told him I was born on Christmas day, and that my parents weren’t very imaginative when it came to naming me.

He replied, “It sucks.”

“Sucks?”

“Being born on Christmas day, it sucks.”

“I guess.”

Two heavy unkempt eyebrows caved over bloodshot eyes.

“You guess? Doesn’t bother you several billion people are muscling in on your one special day?”

The question was delivered with an underlying bitterness I never expected from such a compassionate person. I shrugged my shoulders reticently.

“You wait a whole year to feel unique, and you’re not pissed that everyone is too busy with their own lives to share in yours?”

I reflected for a moment before replying.

“Maybe… as a child. Not so much now. Christmas is no different than any other day.”

Jesus huffed a little before resuming interest again in the armchair pattern. The rest of the meeting followed a similar pattern: pleasantries were made and the offer of refreshments refused. With every enquiry came a guarded reply, as Jesus seemed uncomfortable with self-reflection, or dredging up his personal life. The only time he appeared engaged was when I told him about my condition. He was curious how I entertained myself and overcome the boredom of living alone. Any agoraphobic will tell you the key to maintaining sanity is routine. He asked if I ever got lonely, and I told him I had a very healthy social life on many different online forums and networking sites. He then wanted to know if I ever missed physical contact instead of virtual. Uncomfortable discussing such an intimate topic with a person as honest and moral as he, I made a joke about never having to worry about brushing my teeth or doing my hair. He seemed unimpressed and directed his attention to more pressing matters like the waxy build up in his ears, or a nagging itch that seemed to be radiating from his crotch.

If truth be told, I found Jesus boorish and common, and the four corners of my consciousness began to be weighted down by the realization I had been duped. This was no Messiah. The man who sat on my armchair was a down-at-heel stranger who showed no interest in moral guidance, ethics or a deeper spiritual existence. For all I knew he was murderer who preyed on the vulnerable and weak, or in my case, the caged and desperate. I made excuses that I had supper to prepare, and that I felt tired. He seemed indifferent and lazily rose to his feet. Before leaving, he turned and held out his hand. His skin was stained yellow, fingers wax-like. Dirt festered under the tips of each nail like five tiny black boomerangs. I took his hand expecting it to be warm, but the skin was icy cold. “Never deprive yourself,” he said.

While I knew we were a good arm’s length from each other, each word felt like they had been whispered to my ear. I felt his breath upon my neck, his lips touching my lobe. The softness of those words forced me to succumb to an overwhelming darkness. I closed my eyes and from the shade of imagination emerged the figure of Jesus; raven locks cascaded over broad shoulders, and the once ravaged face now veiled by a fallow sheen of flawless skin. As he separated a length of frayed twine tied at his waist, the lapels of a long Hessian robe fell away to reveal a torso etched from stone. Long black shadows cleaved under the lip of every swollen muscle like black snakes seeking shelter in the deepened crevices of a mountain. A colossal trunk broad as a roll of salami appeared from the darkness between his legs. Thick pulsating veins fed its whitened tip, and the more I gazed in disbelief at its size, the more its serpent-like head rose toward me. I heard Jesus’ voice again, “Never deprive yourself.” A blistering heat swelled from within, kindling a furnace between my own legs. I drew each breath with the same want and expectancy, but it never came. I called out his name, but he never answered back. Slowly I withdrew from the moment and opened my eyes. I was back in the living room, alone. I ran a finger along my thigh and it came back glistening.

From the moment I held his hand and awoke from that unexpected reverie, not one minute had lapsed without thinking of Jesus. The ugly and loutish man that had sat on my chair had entered me in spiritual form, stirring my desires and awakening part of my body that had long been sleeping. He left me aching with a thirst I knew only he could slake, and as I took to my bed that night, I wished for his return, to come to me in a dream and allow me one moment of selfish pleasure. And this he did. For only a few moments in darkness were needed before his naked body materialized from the gloom of my bedroom ceiling. Floating down toward me, he was again beautiful and bronzed, a man of ages.

I saw his hand reach to my cheek and felt the coldness of his touch temper the flames within. His soft full lips touched mine, the tip of his nose grazing my cheek. I inhaled and smelled a heady aroma of earth and the tide, of sweat and the butcher’s knife. From tenderness came a jolt of electricity. An icy chill separated my legs. I felt my skin contract, my spine arch. I knew without looking that my breath was visible against the curtain of night that enveloped us both. The serpent head pushed against the soft wet flesh, parting me like a biblical wave. My throat closed and my breath withdrew into the deepest part of my chest. I called out for Jesus, and he whispered in my ear, “You are life. Love yourself.”

I bit down on my finger and screamed as a billow of coldness and pain ripped through me. With every thrust of his pelvis, my heart grew a little weaker. I could sense a weight descending on me, but not from his body. It was the weight of understanding that something bad was close. Tears burnt trenches through my face before collecting in the cotton of my pillow. I tried pushing Jesus away, but I couldn’t reach him. He was only inches away, but unable to be touched. I looked to the bedside clock. I hoped for day to illuminate the room and break the spell. A dwarf face with ruddy cheeks and white beard sat where the clock should have been. I blinked and allowed my eyes to adjust to the darkness, believing it an illusion born of memory and fear, but there it sat, one of my father’s gnomes, a deep crack running across its head. Weight turned physical, pressing down on my chest. Obedience eased the pain. I tried not to encourage it, but pleasure traversed my deadened limbs so that every part of me was torn between lust and horror. How long this lasted could have been minutes, or an eternity, for time was a bird caught flying in the wind. The last words came from Jesus who was still rocking away above me. With low sinister timbre, he whispered, “It’s true… Christmas does come but once year.”