PRIMAL HUNGER, Second Chapter

Gregor’s dead-weight makes the trip back to the relative safety of the bomb crater extremely dangerous, and utterly exhausting.  Dieter barely has the strength to maneuver over the rubble that hides his crater.  He slides the metal sheet back flooding the crater with light.  He lowers Gregor’s body through the hatch, tosses a pack of provisions in, then climbs down.

You are leaving the other bodies.

It’ll be dark soon.  They’ll be completely frozen before I get them back, but this one—

…is nice and soft.

For a while longer.  I’ll take the meat off while I can.  I’ll get the others another time.

Dieter leaves a crack of light coming into the dark crater until, with flint and shreds of clothing, he gets a fire started.  He stokes it up with his stash of broken furniture.  Smoke drifts up through various vents in the rubble.

Dieter crawls back outside and checks the smoke.  Satisfied, he climbs back in and closes the hatch.  He grabs the pack he acquired from his murdered countrymen, and digs out a poorly stocked med-kit, then sits on the layers of his victims’ clothing that he calls a bed.

His first operation is removing the fragment from his abdomen.  With no proper instrument to extract the ricocheted MG round, Dieter has to improvise.  He fashions clamps from rigid wire.  He bends the ends into tight loops to grab the lead and pull it out.  Dieter has to cut the wound open with his knife to get his clamps in deep enough.  It takes him many attempts.

Dieter bites down with all his might on his leather knife sheath.  Sweat pours down his forehead, mixing with the blood under his impromptu bandage, and runs watery-pink over his cheeks to mingle with tears, then drip from his quivering chin.

Dieter finally pulls the ruined round out of the bloody hole.

He spits the sheath out, and sighs deeply, resting his head back.  After a few minutes he inspects the little piece of lead that caused him so much agony.

Dieter grunts and tosses it in the fire.

Next, Dieter melts snow in a can and brings it to a near-boil.  He tests it several times, bites down on the sheath again, then douses the wound with the near-scalding water.  His eyes are squeezed as tightly shut as possible, and he shakes his head violently side-to-side as he grits his teeth and struggles not to cry out.

Finally, the terrible burning subsides, and, with shaking hands, he sews the wound shut.

His right leg is a shallow through-and-through on the outside of the thigh that just missed the femur.  Infection is still a concern.  He suffers another cleansing, then gets the front entry wound sewn up fine, but struggles to get the larger hole in the back of his leg.  Dieter manages as best he can and bandages the leg up.  All his other superficial wounds he cleans and dresses as well.

As adrenaline and the cold wear off Dieter’s wounds start to ache severely.  He digs his tobacco pouch out, and rolls a cigarette.

You did well today.

I was almost killed … five times.


Dieter offers a nasal grunt, and spits in the fire.

You wish to say something?


I am unconvinced.

It doesn’t matter.

So you do have something to say.

No, I don’t.

Am I to remain silent all evening whilst you stir the cauldron of turmoil that is your overly emotional mind?

I’m not overly emotional.  What do you care anyway?

I do not know your thoughts, yet I feel the emotions of them through you.  Your mind is a riotous racket.  Silence is sublime.  I seek only that

A real humanitarian…

Dieter grunts a laugh and shakes his head.  He sighs.  “You want to know what’s bothering me.  Look at me!” he gestures to his wounded body and calamitous crater of a home.  “This isn’t how it was supposed to be.  You said I would be rewarded. ”

You think you have not been?  How do you know that you were not supposed to be dead in this life already, and that I have prevented it?

Dieter shakes his head.  “No!  You said Riches and Power, that’s what you said—what you promised; Riches and Power.  Well I have neither.  I have bullet wounds and lice … lice that come to life and drive me crazy if ever I am fortunate enough to warm myself up a bit.”  He puffs furiously on his cigarette.

You must be patient.

“Patient?  I have been patient.  I’ve been very patient.  Do I ever complain?  When have I ever doubted you?  Through the court marshal, and being shipped to the Eastern Front, when did I ever once speak in doubt?’

This very moment.

“You’re surprised?”  Dieter grunts.  “From the first, all those years ago, I was elated.  I was the best at everything; best athlete, best academic, best everything—everyone wanted to be me.  I got top marks in the Hitler Youth Corps, was accepted in the SS-Academy, and then to be recruited by the Totenkopfverbände so young, and promoted up to First Lieutenant so quickly.  It was a dream-come-true for any young German soldier.  When I was assigned to Auschwitz as the Colonel’s adjutant, I really believed in you then.  I thought it was really going to happen.”

Dieter drags on his rolled cigarette, his face orange in the ember’s glow.  He drops his head in his hands.

But then you had me rape that damn Jew.

I told you to humiliate it.  You did what you wanted.  You have hungers too.

“But why did I get caught?  How does getting court marshaled and sent to die in this hell-hole with the fucking Wehrmacht infantry have to do with Riches and Power?”

You still live.  How can you assume you will not have endless wealth when this battle ends?  Faith produces miracles.  Doubt, and you will have nothing.

So you always say.

He throws the cigarette butt into the fire.

I need to carve my meat.

Dieter rigs a rectangular frame, and lays four sticks across it.  He then strips the pants off Gregor.  Dieter draws his knife, and cuts a large rectangle through the thick skin of the thigh.  He then peels it back, grunting as he yanks and pulls on the skin, slicing underneath as he goes.  He finally tears it off the large flap of flesh, and throws aside.

You need the skin for strength.

His legs are too hairy.  I can’t deal with it.


Next, Dieter carves thin strips of muscle from the leg, one at a time, all the way down to the bone.  These he drapes over the sticks he rigged.

Blood pours out of Gregor’s leg, and pools at the base of the crater.  Some runs into the coals of the fire, and sizzle and bubbles there.  Gradually, as the ground thaws, the dark soil absorbs the blood as if thirsting for it.

Dieter repeats the process on the other leg, then rolls the corpse over.  He starts at the buttocks, and works his way down.

By the time he’s done with the right calf muscle, there is no more room on his sticks to hang Gregor’s flesh.  He carves up the left calf and lays the strips out on Gregor’s back.

From hips on down, Gregor is only meaty bone with knees and feet still intact.

Dieter skewers a strip of thigh on his knife and holds it over the small fire.

Within a few minutes he’s scratching at his scalp and body.

“Fucking lice!  The heat wakes the fucking parasites up.”

Eat it raw.

No.  Not when I can have a fire.  No way.

Then stop complaining.  It makes you dull.

“Well, being a cheerful host wasn’t in the bargain, I’m afraid.  Too bad for you.”

Perhaps I will amend the contract.

It takes two…

Dieter inspects the meat, then takes a bite, but can’t tear the chunk off.  He lays the strip down and cuts off bite-sized pieces.  Dieter Müller sits back against the crater wall, scratches away at his lice, and, with no apparent revulsion whatsoever, eats several strips of his countryman’s thigh.

Dieter’s mind wanders as he chews the tough flesh, drifting back to the memories warped and wrapped in his dream of his return from Lükenwalde, and his fateful last night in Auschwitz.  The demon was right; Dieter had been having frequent nightmares lately.  It was as if his soul was trying to work out the events of his life that his mind had refused to address.  But why now?

The trip back home to Germany had been … regretful.

Mother had been dying from cancer.  She had personally written Colonel Höss, and had requested that the Colonel give leave to her son because Dieter had obviously been “…too busy with his war-time duties to return home to visit his ill mother, and too proud to ask his commanding officer for permission.”

Of course that wasn’t the case at all, but it was a good story.

Colonel Fritz Müller was the most decorated hero of the First World War, an officer of unquestionable loyalty who, in the second battle of the Marne, had given his life for the Fatherland, and had saved most of his battalion in the process.  He was a mythical figure revered throughout Germany.

So when this hero’s widow wrote a letter to her son’s commanding officer requesting that her son be given leave to see her, you better believe that leave was given, and with it an order for Dieter to make sure that he found himself at her bedside by the following day.

Had the Colonel not given Dieter a direct order, Dieter would never have went.  Deep down—way deep down—he knew what was to come, and he was terrified of facing it.  But he’d been wrong about that, hadn’t he?  Yes, dead wrong.

Dieter arrived unannounced on the steps of his family home in Lükenwalde, Germany, at 1341 hrs, April 13th, 1942.

The Müller estate was in shambles.  Cancer, it seemed, had been killing more than just Mother.

Dieter was met at the front door by a woman in her mid-thirties he had never seen before.  She was tall, blond, and rather attractive in a plain, commonly way, and fit quite well into the expensive silk summer dress that Dieter recognized.  Her long blonde hair was meticulously pinned up, but her makeup was only half done, and her cheap flat-soled shoes did not match the rest of the picture.

“Welcome home, Herr Müller.” she said smiling.

“Herr Lieutenant.” Dieter corrected. “Who are you?”

“My apologies, Herr Lieutenant; I am Elizabeth, your mother’s nurse.” She shifts uneasily.  “You may call me Nurse Elizabeth if you like.” she adds in an attempt at levity that fails to hide that she’s nervous, fearful even.

Dieter steps past her and into the large foyer.  He removes his peaked SS uniform cap, and holds it with both hands behind him.

“Your mother…” Elizabeth’s voice falters.  She clears her throat. “Your mother will be so pleased you are here.” she offers as cheerfully as she’s able.

Dieter remains with his back to her as he takes in the decrepit state of the place.

“Will you be staying long?” she asks.

Dieter can hardly believe this is the house he’d grown up in.  How had it gotten like this?  He’d been gone a few years only.  It was incredible.

“I would’ve prepared a room for you had I known you were—”

“Tell me,” Dieter interrupts without facing her, “why are you wearing my mother’s dress?”

Elizabeth’s expression drops, and she pales.  “I … I beg your pardon?”

Dieter does an about-face.  “My mother’s dress,” he gestures with his cap, “why are you wearing it?”

“I … no … no, this is my dress.  I would never—”

“Did you enjoy your trip to Paris?”

“My trip?  I … I’m not sure what—”

“Your trip to Paris, fräulein, did you enjoy it?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand—”

“Of course you don’t.  You’ve never been, have you?”

“I … no, I regret I haven’t.”

“You should regret it—beautiful city, Paris.” He strolls over and inspects the window drapes.  “The Führer is a great admirer of Paris; its art and architecture.  Did you know that?”

“No, Herr Lieutenant.” her voice trembles slightly.

“He is, very much so, but he intends to rebuild Berlin to rival it.  Isn’t that amazing?”

“Yes … yes, it is.  Heil Hitler.”

Dieter turns.  “Heil Hitler, indeed.”  He goes to her, and gently takes the fabric of the low-cut collar in his hand, slipping his forefinger under it against her skin.  She cannot help but recoil, if only slightly.  Dieter moves his hand up and down the collar, admiring the fine fabric, as his forefinger caresses the smooth skin of her right breast.

“So smooth … such sheen … so lovely…”  His finger explores further.  “It’s Parisian silk.  Father gave it to Mother for her birthday; her twentieth.  The pattern is called Golden Egret; it’s a Jacques Mathieu design, did you know that?” he asks rhetorically as the tip of his forefinger finds the edge of her areola.

She gasps and shakes her head.

“Well, now you do.  It’s unfashionable not know what you’re wearing.” he withdraws his hand, and sees her erect nipple pushing up under the silk.  He raises his eyes to meets hers.

Elizabeth’s looks to the floor.  “I’m so sorry.  I should never have … I’ll go change.”

“No, no … there’s no need for that, Elizabeth.” he says reassuringly, placing his hands on her shoulders. “You keep it on, I insist.  Will you do that for me?”

She only nods.

“Good.” He looks her over again. “It was always one of my favorites.”  He smiles.  “I’ll go see Mother now.  See to it that you remain, and that I am not disturbed.”  He turns and ascends the stairs.

By the time he reaches the top, all thoughts if Elizabeth are forgotten.  Dieter feels the anxiety grow as he makes his heavy-hearted way down the hall to Mother’s room.  He takes a deep breath then opens the door.

The room is dark, and smells of dust and dying.  The thick drapes are pulled closed over the tall arched windows.  He can’t see Mother, only the vague shape of her bed.  He can hear her though; a slow, wheezy sound, like something inhuman pretending to breathe.

He opens the drapes a bit.  A beam of light fights through the gloom and illuminates the sad scene.  Dieter is shocked to his very core by what he sees.

The once majestic and beautiful Kathryn Anne Müller is now weak and withered.  Pale, nearly translucent, liver-spotted skin hangs loosely over fragile bones and dark blue veins that wind their way underneath.  Dieter wouldn’t recognize her had she not been lying there in her own bed.  He had seen the human body in deep states of decrepitude, but nothing like this.  The cancer had eaten her alive.

He sits in the chair beside her bed.

“Hello, Mother.”

She doesn’t respond.


Fraü Müller remains still as a corpse, her once luxurious golden hair—now but gray, tangled strands—lays matted over her stained pillow.  The slow rise and fall of her chest, driven by her labored breaths, gives the only indication that she lives.

“Do you know I’m here?”


“You wrote the Colonel.  You knew he’d order me home.  You must have been waiting for me …  well; I am here at your bedside as you wished.”

Dieter hears a fly buzzing and thumping against the window pane, its frantic struggle to escape the only sound within the deathly silence of the bedroom-turned-crypt.  Dieter empathizes with the insect completely; how he would love throw open the sash, leap from the window, and make his own escape to freedom.

But, no … he will remain here in the gloom and doom until mother wakes or dies.

Dieter stays by his mother’s side for the remainder of the day.  Finally, in the evening, he leans over his mother, and kisses her on her forehead.  Her skin there is a thin cold membrane.  Dieter can see her skull through it.

“Goodnight, Mother.”  He stands.

“Deedee…” she whispers.

Dieter’s heart nearly seizes from fright.  He sits back down.

“Yes, Mother, I can hear you.”


“Yes, Mother, I am here.”

He thinks he should touch her; reach out and take her hand, touch her shoulder—anything!—but he doesn’t want to feel her deathly-cold flesh again.

“…was so proud of you.”

“I know, Mother.  That’s all I ever wanted; for you and father to be proud of me.”

“I was … so proud.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Now … ashamed.”

Dieter ‘s uncertain he heard her correctly.



Dieter feels a twinge of anger rise.

“You have every reason to be proud, Mother.  At twenty-five, I am the youngest Obersturmführer in the history of the SS corps.  I am already the Adjutant at Auschwitz, and—”

“No!” she coughs. “You’re … a monster!”

Her words are like a blow to his gut, sucking the wind from him, but he keeps his composure.

“You’re ill, Mother.  That is why you say such things.”

“Gretchen!” she forces out, sending herself into a fit of hacking.

It is another blow, lower this time; Gretchen had been Dieter’s fiancée.

Mother had made the match when Dieter was 20, and Gretchen was 17.  Mother was overjoyed that Dieter did not oppose the idea.  She had planned the entire wedding within weeks, and was already preparing a playroom in the Müller home for her future grandchildren-to-be.  She had Gretchen over as often as the young woman could come.  They cooked and baked, and worked in the rose garden together, all the while chatting and laughing.  Mother and Gretchen had grown extremely close.

Mother was completely inconsolable when Gretchen died, and almost immediately she began to show her years which before she had always belied.  It was as if the decades that had thus far left Mother untouched had suddenly and mercilessly called in the debt with brutal interest.  Mother ceased to cook or bake.  The Müller home gathered dust and cobwebs, and the majestic rose gardens withered, faded, and died.  She never recovered.

Dieter had been home on leave from the prestigious Schutzstaffel Academy at the time of Gretchen’s death.  After her funeral, he was glad to return to his training, and leave the mourning and misery behind.

He had been shocked beyond words upon his return a year later to discover the state of decline his mother and home had fallen into.  Mother didn’t speak to him at all when he came back that year.  Nor did she speak to anyone else, friends of the family had said.  She remained locked away in the old Müller home as it fell into disrepair, seeming to be connected somehow to Fraü Müller’s fate.

That was three long years ago.  Dieter hadn’t been home since.

Even when he’d received word of her terminal cancer, he still could not bring himself to fly back to Lükenwalde.  Somewhere within his darkening soul he was relieved that soon he would no longer have to fear looking again into those piercing emerald eyes of hers, and see his guilt and shame reflected back at him, or feel the icy dagger he’d impaled through his own heart, and its razor-sharp edges of remorse and regret cutting him to pieces.  Yes, if she would only die, the dagger might die with her.  He hoped it would, for to see Mother again would drive it deeper, right down into his vulnerable soul.

But Mother had out-foxed him.  She had used the full weight of her hero-husband’s name, and leveraged the Colonel into ordering her absentee son to her deathbed to hear her final truth.

And thus she speaks it, her green eyes boring into him, “You killed her.”

Dieter is speechless a moment, then shakes his head.  “Why would you say that?  They all blamed me—her family, everyone.  Don’t you blame me too.  It was an accident, Mother, a terrible accident.” he resists the repulsion, and takes her bony hand into his powerful one.  “Don’t you think I’ve blamed and punished myself enough?”

Mother pulls her hand away.  “No…”

“Well, I have.  I blame myself every day for what happened.  If I had not let her gallop down that steep hill like that, or if I had been riding closer she wouldn’t have fallen, she’d still be alive—we would be married, and we’d have children, Mother.  I would be a father!”  He leans forward, and takes her hand again, this time holding it firmly.  “I’ve suffered every day, Mother—suffered and blamed myself every day!—but it was an accident, a terrible, terrible accident.”

Mother tries to pull back her hand again.  She yanks weakly, fighting Dieter’s grip until he sighs, and relinquishes his hold.

“No…” She make a gnarled fist, lifts it, then extends a thin, arthritic finger at Dieter. “You murdered her!”

Dieter hangs his head.  “You’re being cruel, Mother.  I loved her too.”

“I know…”

“Then why say these things, when you know I loved her.”

“No!” She hacks, and coughs. ” I know… it was not an accident.” She points again. “You murdered her—like the others—you raped and murdered our sweet Gretchen .. our angel.”

Dieter sits up straight, and folds his arms across his chest.

Mother struggles to fight back the tears. “I have always known … since the first one; our neighbor’s daughter, little Vera … poor little Vera.  I found her buried behind the pottery barn.”  Her frail body shakes as she sobs.

Dieter looks out the window at the old pottery barn in the far corner of the property.  He remembered the panic as he dug the shallow grave.  He had cried from the first breach of the earth until the last shovelful that buried her.  He remembered the dead smell of her.  She hadn’t rotted—he had buried her the same day—it was from her body evacuating itself; the final function of the dying.  He couldn’t get the smell off his hands for a week.  He washed and he scrubbed again and again, but still it remained to remind him of his terrible trespass into the perennial prerogative of the Almighty.  He could smell her in the back yard as well, seeping up through the soil somehow to waft over the pottery barn.  No one else seemed to be aware of the odor; a scent he would forever equate with guilt and fear.

“Oh, my Deedee … my poor Deedee was sick.  He was a sweet boy—he was just sick.  He was such a good boy.  I had to be a good mother.  So I kept his secrets.  I kept them all.  When I found them, I hid them.  I dug them up and reburied them where no one would find them.  No one would look in my garden.  No one would dare dig up my roses.”

It was brilliant.  She was absolutely right that no one would dare—not even with an order from the Führer, and sign by God Himself would anyone dare to dig up Frau Müller’s pristine rose garden.

Why didn’t I think of that?

“I knew I had to find the right girl for you—that’s all that mattered—find the perfect match and I knew it would end.  When I found Gretchen, I was so sure she was the one that would save my sweet Deedee.  But I was wrong—God forgive me!—I was wrong, and you murdered her … raped and murdered her.  I knew then my Deedee was gone and that you were a monster!”  By some impossible effort of will, Frau Müller raises herself off the filthy plane of her giant bed and screams at Dieter, “A MONSTER!!!”  She coughs violently.  Spittle and phlegm flies onto her bedding.

Dieter takes a deep breath.  He sighs and nods.  “Yes, I am a monster, Mother.

“I … am not your mother!”  You are not my son!  My son is dead.  You killed him … murdered my sweet little boy.  “You-are-not-mySON!!!”  Her whimpers become a wailing, torrent of tears, an absolute downpour of decades of unimaginable despair.

She looks to him, her emerald eyes boring into his, “I hate you.” she whispers. “You have consigned my Deedee to Hell; my sweet baby will burn forever.”

That dagger in Dieter’s heart begins to twist.  He feels a part of himself die.

Mother looks away, and stares unblinking at something distant and unknown.  “For what I’ve done—my terrible, unforgivable sins—I will burn in Hell with him … forever.”

Dieter solemnly shakes his head.  “No, Mother, you won’t.”

Dieter covers Mother’s head with her old, stained pillow, and presses down.  She offers no resistance at all, but he hears her; even through the pillow the words are unmistakable in their cadence and venom: “I hate you!  I hate you!  I hate you!”

Mother’s body gives a final weak spasm, then stills as her chest sinks down unnaturally deep.  Dieter hears her organs offer a low gurgle as her bowels give and her body evacuates its waste.  The stench consumes the close air of the bedroom.

Dieter stands and looks at his mother a final time, then turns and leaves the room just as her body begins to shimmer.

Take her.

Very well.

Darkness rises out of Dieter as the soul of Kathryn Anne Müller ascends from her corpse.  Dieter closes the door, and so does not see that his mother’s spirit is golden and shimmering, and appears young and beautiful again.  He only hears the final thought of his mother’s entire existence:”MONSTER!”

Dieter spits out an unchewable piece gristly Gregor.

I should never have gone back. 

Remembrance is weakness.

I should’ve protested the order, or disobeyed it—something.

Linger in the past, and the present will destroy you.

The present is Stalingrad, and it’s doing an excellent job all on its own, if you haven’t noticed.

Dieter cleans and sheaths his knife, then rearranges his bed of clothing, lies down, and falls into a fitful slumber.


Snipers!  Snipers everywhere!

He is trying to run away, but he can’t.  A blizzard blows wildly.  Snow and ice covers all of Stalingrad.  He slips and falls.  But he has to run or they’ll kill him.

Rounds zip-crack right past his head, followed by the rifle reports from all around.

He has to find some cover.  But where?  Visibility is maybe five meters only.  Everything is blanketed in white.  The jagged remains of structures are vague gray shapes.  No landmarks.  He’s lost.  He’s lost and they’re going to kill him.  Nowhere to run.  Every broken building is a sniper’s haunt.


The wind?

He looks back.

No.  Not the wind.  Dogs, big voracious Kangals, howl and give pursuit.

He flees stumble-sliding from alley to alley seeking escape.  Each is blocked by an unscalable mass of rubble, or guarded by green-eyed Kangal hounds of Hell.

The dogs close in, the snipers rain lead.  He’s going to die.  He knows it.  His head will be blown to bits, and dog will tear him to pieces.


He won’t give up and let them take him.  He runs on.

There ahead … something … a way through, an unbarred avenue of escape between the buildings before him.  With all the will he can summon he sprints and slides, dodging side-to-side to discourage the many crosshairs seeking the back of his skull.

It is a pass through, but is it to freedom?  It matters not; sniper fingers still pull triggers, and the dogs still hunt.  He must run on.

He sees a large gray shape in the distance.

The blizzard begins to relent.

Wait; there’s a wall with a gate of familiar ironwork, and the silhouette of the structure he recognizes.  Yes, he knows this place.  It’s the Müller mansion.  He is home.  He’ll be safe.  If he can only get to the gate he’ll be safe.

He makes it, and dashes through, securing it behind.  He doesn’t slide.  He realizes the blizzard’s gone.  There’s no snow on the ground at all.  Throughout the grounds of the Müller estate the trees, flowers, and hedges are bursting with life and color.

He looks back from whence he’d fled.  Some distance off the storm still rages.  The massive gray forms of the Kangals pace within the swirling snow, waiting for him should he ever dare to return.

The Müller home is elegant and meticulously kept inside as well.  He doesn’t understand why this surprises him.

But there is an oppressive odor.


Yes, the mansion smells like there’s been a fire.


His shout doesn’t echo through the many halls as it should.


Again only silence.


He feels ill at ease now; an urgency he doesn’t understand is creeping up on him.

He bolts up the stairs, taking them three at a time, and sprints to Mother’s bedroom door.  He pauses and takes a breath, then knocks.


He knocks again.


He slowly opens the door and steps within.

Candlelight gives the spacious bedroom a warm, welcoming glow, and stirs in him a feeling he has not had in a long, long time…


Mother sits at her broad vanity brushing her golden hair.


He crosses the room to stand behind her.

She is not Mother.  She is Liza.


Yes, now he remembers.  He calls her that.  He doesn’t like Elizabeth.  Yes, he remembers it all.  That’s why she sits at Mother’s vanity, wearing her loveliest nightgown, and jewelry—she’s even used Mother’s makeup and perfume…

We were playing a game … a pretending game.

He had instructed her on how to play.

She was doing very well.  The way she managed the resemblance she looked almost beautiful.

“Brush my hair.” she says.

He happily obeys.  Oh, how he loved to brush her hair.

She is looking at him in the mirror.  She smiles, but there are tears on her cheeks.

“Do you love me?” she asks.

He nods.

She stands and takes his hand.  She leads him to the bed.  Leaving him standing at the foot of it as she lays back.  “Do you love me?”

He nods again.

She lifts her hips, and hikes the gown up above her waist.  She spreads her legs.  One hand goes under the silk to her right breast, and pinches and pulls her nipple.  Her other hand makes its way across her breasts, down the curvature of her hip, over the soft hair of her pelvic mound, all the way down between her legs.  She parts her pubic hair, exposing the pink flesh of her labia, then with two fingers she opens them up invitingly.

He feels a powerful arousal surging up inside him.  He realizes that he is naked.  His erection is enormous and dark red it’s so engorged.

She smiles still, yet the tears remain as well.

“Tell me you love me, Deedee.”

“I love you, Mother.”

Her arms invite him to embrace.  He accepts and lowers himself between her legs.

Oh, Mother…

The feel of her skin, her breast against him, her arms embracing, her breath on his neck, and enters her, watching the full length of it being welcomed by her.

Mother’s voice moans, “Oh, my dear sweet, Deedee!”


Yes, Mother’s voice!

He looks up.  It is no longer Liza.  It is Mother beneath him.  She is young, beautiful, and radiant beyond all description.  She smiles at him.

“Oh, Mother…”

He thrusts into her.  His orgasm builds, and rises instantly, like a wave of unrealized passion and unrequited desires.

“My dear, sweet Deedee…”

“I love you, Mother.  I love you!”

He stares into Mother’s beautiful green eyes and thrusts harder.  The shock of his orgasm blinds him and ignites every nerve in his body at once, all senses blasted to incredible levels of euphoria.

I love you, Mother.

Then it is over.  The dream fades and Dieter wakes.  It takes him a minute to orientate himself.  He realizes he has cum in his sleep.


He grabs a piece of clothing and cleans himself.

As pleasing as it was, Dieter is disturbed that he has dreamt of the event.  He never thinks about the murders he’s committed.  He neither reflects on them nor relishes in them.  He killed them, disposed of them, then thought of them no more.  With each victim he buried, he buried the memory as well, deep in the darkest corner of the graveyard of his mind.

Yet they had come back to life of late, these once buried and forgotten memories, and one by one had clawed their way out of their tombs to now haunt the latent labyrinthine halls his subconscious, bringing dreams and nightmares to his slumber, and forcing Dieter to remember who they were and what he forever took from them.

Why should he be so haunted?  He has no remorse about Liza.

He had paid her back for trying to be Mother, and had gotten Mother back by making her so.

Dieter had ended the trip to Lükenwalde digging amongst the rows of gray, skeleton-like remains of the long-dead rose bushes of the once proud garden.  There, deep within the well-fertilized soil, and in the company of all the others, he lovingly placed Liza, dressed in Mother’s best.

The remains of his hateful, suffocated, soul-murdered mother he’d left wrapped in her filthy bedding on the floor of the guest room where he had made Liza drag her; there to burn along with the rest of the accursed Müller estate he’d put to fire.

He had stood watching the flames of his arson shatter windows and roar through the mansion engulfing everything, and had no sense of loss at all.  Satisfaction perhaps?  No, none whatsoever.  What he realized he felt then was nothing … empty … utterly and completely void of any feeling at all.

His demon, however, seemed rather pleased.


~End Second Chapter


Keep an eye out for the forthcoming Third Chapter!

Leave a comment


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  5. Elle Morford

     /  January 29, 2014




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