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There is a distinct charm to observing things that crawl and flounder and fester consume the tender beauty of nature and flesh. All that is built upon the essential pillars, of dust and earth and bone and fluid, sooner or later return to whence they came and nurture the circle of life. Such was the case with the unfortunate soul who had ventured too far, stretched and reached his liberties where they had neither purpose nor privilege being. His body was devoured by earthworms and spiders, woodlice and pillbugs, moths and beetles, poisonous toads and snakes, and many other insects of the Wormwood Marshlands. The man was a bookie and a drug peddler, an individual of lesser talents forced to seek the superiority of others in order to survive in the unforgiving city of sin and vice. Many of his kind sought out the services of that shady Witch of the swamp, thinking; what could that old hag possibly do to hurt me?

Sophia fiddled with one of many chained pendants in her possession. It had some esoteric meaning described in ancient tombs, none of which mattered much in this day and age, but they certainly had sentimental value to her. After all, the elegant woman did not aspire to be cruel in spirit even if what she did in the flesh and material world had minuscule moral meaning or impact. Besides, she lived in Wormwood for a reason. It was a garden of ingredients for alchemical and occult practices. She had called upon one of her servants to do the dirty work of collecting insects from the feast of the bookie’s rapidly decaying body. Sophia did not know the servant’s name or who he was now or back in the old country. The brainwashed goons in her horrid cult were known in Santa Somabra as the Faceless, as they wore pallid masks and dark clothing in order to be one with the shadows and embrace the unknown. The Faceless were eerie and uncomfortable, a chilling presence.

The dark clad woman pointed and selected the ingredients for her servant to acquire. She refused to speak to the Faceless unless she absolutely had to, as their presence and voices were utmost disturbing. Sophia had never seen their actual faces, but she knew that they were horridly scarred from whatever vile ritual her father had put them through during initiation. However, the Faceless themselves did not seem to care, no matter how badly Sophia treated them. They were completely blank, ghosts of their former selves, thoroughly detached from the material world and their personal being, and wherever they appeared, the Faceless struck fear and despair into the hearts of even the most hardened individuals. 

Apparently, the bookie nearly died from a heart attack when he awoke from his slumber in the middle of the night, feeling the presence of a silent Faceless looming in his apartment. They surely had a talent for sneaking up on people, simply existing and not existing. Even Sophia herself was always startled whenever a Faceless seemingly transitioned itself into her abode to deliver a message or heed her call. They were just…creepy, like the Grim Reaper itself arriving at your door step. When another one of them now appeared at Sophia’s side, in the midst of the dank swamp and the burial ritual of the bookie, her body twitched at suddenly realizing the hulking and chilling presence, the metallic voice.

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“Mistress………,” the second Faceless said. Sophia’s heart jolted, but instantly settled as per routine.

“Would it hurt you to announce yourself a little earlier? It’s like a constant horror film around here,” she muttered in annoyance while returning her focus to the first Faceless, whom collected insects from the bookie’s body. “What the Hell do you want?” She continued.

“The full Moon stirs the pack….. rivers of red engulf the streets….  silhouettes approach from the city, invading the haven….,” the second Faceless spoke. However, it did not remove itself from Sophia’s presence, which they usually did when delivering a message or information. The woman glanced at the dark presence.

“You’re still here,” she said, implying that the Faceless should remove himself.

“The source of the rumor exists within this domain….. however…. its soul and flesh unknown….,” the second Faceless concluded.

“Let the others know that I hereby lift my decree of pacifism. Do what you must to discover who this wretched being is,” Sophia said. Her voice was cold and monotone, her eyes pale and dead. “Also, ensure sentinels around the haven… those rabid dogs can slaughter the entire city for all I care, but I don’t want them here,” she continued.

“Yes, Mistress…..,” the second Faceless said and seemingly vanished into the shadows and fog of the swamp.

“That’s enough… give me the ingredients,” Sophia spoke in Romanian, grabbing a small bucket of insects from the first Faceless. “Get lost,” she continued, ordering the Faceless to discard the body of the bookie and return to his duties in the city.

Sophia retreated into the depths of home. The Wormwood Estate was the abandoned haven and escape of some Eighteenth century aristocrat turned mad, meddling in black arts and necromancy. Lucien was his name, as Sophia had discovered in old journals and documents. The structure had several bedrooms, living spaces, two kitchens, a wine cellar, and a basement. The underground of the estate was vast. It also had an escape tunnel that led all the way out of the marshlands. However, in all her years, Sophia never had to use the means of escape or be afraid. She was too much of an asset to the psychopaths of the city. And with a small army of creepy, Voorhees -esque serial murderers at her back, Sophia was an influential member of the underworld community. However, unlike many other kingpins and dangerous individuals, she was mostly uninterested in running things or disrupting the business of others, which had made her a neutral party in most situations.

The woman seated herself beside a massive cauldron in one of the kitchens. The apparatus was boiling with a pitch black liquid. It was the beginning of an enchantment recipe, her own design. After the proper ingredients were added to the putrid fluid and the complex rituals preformed, it was ready to be coated on a melee weapon of choice, and then heated to form a strong crust. An individual, who would then be penetrated with the weapon, would suffer horrid nightmares every night and hallucinate during the day for at least a week. The enchantment was a passion project, a personal pursuit, a potent mix.

Sophia fell into a deep trance, as she devoted herself to the ins and outs of alchemical practices. A light hum of some ancient melody emerged from her presence. Some of the Faceless patrolled the outer rims of the haven, hulking minions of nightmares equipped with vile hatchets and machetes, ready to strike and murder the unwanted. Something was going on in the city that would sooner or later reach beyond its borders and invade everyone’s privacy. Sophia could feel it in the dank air. She could feel that a knock on her door was imminent. They would once again drag her into their shady dealings, drama, and emotions that always ended with extreme bloodshed. Maybe it had something to do with the rumor of her father being alive and in Santa Somabra, the man who had once attempted to sacrifice her to his imaginary God, the man from which she had acquired her uninvited talents.

A Faceless appeared behind Sophia, but she was too deep into her meditation to react.

“Mistress….. someone approaches….,” it said.

“………………let them in,” she silently retorted, elegance and depth in her tone.