Crawford, room-centered, is perched naked and backwards on an old wooden chair. At near three second intervals - the lashing of human flesh, accompanied by groans of heightening anguish. The tool - a Russian-style knout of small spiked chains, bearing an ash wood handle.
He had become involved with and driven by unclean forces, the sort which can only bring ruin to a man. Self-flagellation was just one of many punitive endeavors he was required to undertake to remain in good graces.
In follow of the flogging, he takes several shots of absinthe to dull the pain. With blood trickling down his back, he lights some dried plant material in a small clay bowl, whispers a few tangled words and cries out -
“Born of the black moon and dying sun!”
Three appeals, then silence. He snuffs out the candles and moves purposefully to the opposite side of the makeshift torture chamber. There, a small red light ignites and the dark room is brought to life. Completing the ritual, he pricks his right middle finger and drips blood onto the photo paper before exposure.
Then, the magic. Into a series of trays, finishing in the wash. Deliberately he removes each photo and hangs them to dry, marveling over his meticulous labor.
“Safe keeping my pretties.”
There have always been those who feared having their souls captured by way of photograph. Now, through acts of dark ritual, Crawford Sinclair has found a crooked and ungodly path to making that a reality.
Always in groups of three. Each shot careful to catch the eyes without the subject knowing. It was the eyes that were the windows inward, reflecting pools of one’s very essence.
Crawford, in all his profane disgrace, now stood lord and master over the eternal existence of these unsuspecting souls. Immortalized in photo form, captive to an infernal imp in a squalid, undisclosed Tennessee basement.
He was leisurely sinking in vile and wicked waters.
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