The Forgiving

by Wesley McCraw

  Alex hit her in the back of the head with the stone. Her skull was feeble and the bone bashed in easily. He had never killed anyone before.

  Earlier that night, he had heard himself say, “Don’t let her escape.” The commandment had repeated over and over in his mind. Surely, this was what God had meant. This was God’s work.

  Alex hiked the three miles back to Stonecipher House, staying off the main street, feeling guilty despite his faith. There was blood spatter on his shirt and face, but no one noticed. It was dark, and he walked quickly.

  Tonight everyone would be forgiven, so he guessed killing one old lady didn’t really matter.

  15

  Grip Underground

  Earlier that night, in the room upstairs with the lamp and the table, Grip and Howard listened to Isabel's chopping as Daniel tore pieces from the loaf of bread.

  “We saw inside another room. There was this . . .” Grip trailed off and stared into space. Howard touched his arm to get Grip to come back to the present. “And in the basement, there were skulls, skulls of children.” Grip laughed to himself.

  “What?”

  “Baby goats are called kids.”

  Howard felt the tender lump from when Isabel had hit him with the flashlight. The lump felt like a sprouting horn. “I should have known.”

  “Why?”

  “The Cross of the Lamb is about sacrifice. The sacrifice has to be meaningful. In biblical times, a goat was a big deal. But it wouldn't make sense now.”

  “And sacrificing children makes sense?”

  “You have to understand. It’s horrible, I know—it’s beyond horrible—but these people are trying to save the whole world from Hell. Goats aren't going to cut it.”

  “Daddy.” Daniel offered a piece of bread. “Want a cracker?”

  Howard took a piece and chewed it. Daniel pushed bits toward Grip. Grip shook his head, and Daniel pouted.

  Not wanting to upset the boy, Grip took a piece and tried to act as if it tasted good. “Mmmm.”

  Daniel looked pleased. He needed a bath and was pale as a vampire, but he was actually a cute kid. He wasn’t a demon seed; he was just trapped in this house, maybe socially underdeveloped, but still just an innocent child. Was he next in line to be sacrificed?

  Grip spoke without really thinking, “An old girlfriend of mine, Grace, she got an abortion. She found out she was pregnant right before I got arrested. I could’ve had a kid.”

  “Grip, I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugged. “I told her I would support her, whatever she decided, but I was headed off to prison. I mean, it’s not like I could’ve provided child support or something. She told me her decision in a letter. Said it was no big deal. Obviously, neither of us was ready for a kid.”

  “That’s still tough.”

  “I mean shit! The kid would’ve been three before I got out.” Grip realized something. “This must have started with the prostitutes back in the frontier times. With their unwanted bastards.”

  “God, two hundred years. How many sacrifices do you think?”

  “I don’t know. But the madam and her son were the founders, so, I mean, a whole whorehouse of women were choosing to sacrifice their children for who knows how long.”

  Daniel had molded the bread into a whole procession of little crude animals and was lining them up to board the matchbox: a makeshift Noah's Ark.

  “Maybe back in the 1800s it was voluntary, but the whorehouse closed a long time ago. Things must have changed.”

  “We have to stop this,” Grip said. “Whatever it takes.” In prison, Grip hadn’t reported the rape to the guards. He could have stopped it. Why hadn't he stopped it? “These women . . .” He thought he had been a coward, but that wasn’t the real reason he never reported the rapes. He had been in love with Early and hadn’t wanted to lose him. “Howard, there's something I need to talk to you about.” He wanted someone to know. He wanted forgiveness. But fuck! The shame physically hurt and stopped his words from coming out. “Something horrible happened. It's my fault. I could have stopped it, but I let it happen. I kept letting it happen.”

  Howard leaned across the table and kissed Grip on the lips.

  Daniel laughed. “You're silly.” He had never seen two men kiss before.

  “I forgive you,” Howard said to Grip. “Whatever it is. Whatever you need forgiveness for, I forgive you.”

  Grip nodded, his breath catching, and tears ran down his cheeks. He tried not to feel too embarrassed about it, but it meant the world to be accepted like that unconditionally.

  “Grip. There’s something I need to tell you too. Something I should have told you a long time ago, but I couldn't until now.”

  Grip shook his head and spoke past the lump in his throat. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

  “Just listen. I have to say it. The way I was brought up . . . It’s not easy for me—”

  Isabel stuck her head in. “Could one of you hold the flashlight and make sure no one's behind me. I'm starting to get paranoid.”

  Grip and Howard looked at each other.

  “Hold that thought.” Grip stood up, felt dizzy, and steadied himself on the table. “Okay. Got up too fast.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Howard said.

  “Yeah, fit as fuck. Let's go.”

  Grip went out into the hall, but then stuck his head back into the room. “And Howard, I love you too.”

  Grip, with a great pain in his shoulder, picked up the flashlight and pointed it down the hallway. His shoulder wound was getting worse, but didn’t mention it to anyone. There was no need to worry people unnecessarily.

  Through the door at the end of the hall sat the dead woman, just her back in the distance. He wanted to shut the door, but fear stopped him from walking all the way down the hall to close it.

  “All clear,” he said. Maybe he could close it with his mind. Please, God, close the door. If you exist, close the door so I don't have to look at Daniel's dead mom. Nothing happened. Grip sagged with disappointment. On the other hand, if the door closed now, he would lose his shit! So maybe it was for the best God didn’t answer his prayers.

  “A little farther,” Isabel said. “So I don't hit you.”

  He took a few steps down the hall, watching the dead woman’s back. The harsh chopping sound made Grip wince.

  “I'm sorry about before. I didn’t mean to lose it like that.”

  “It's this place.” She took another swing.

  “You think it’s really haunted?”

  “This place is messed up.”

  He shined the light back down the hall and then back to her. “This place reminds me of my time in prison.” It was all he could think about.

  “I know.”

  “There was this kid. He was barely eighteen. I didn’t know his name, but we all called him Porcelain Boy.” Porcelain Boy committed suicide, but Grip couldn’t get himself to say the words. “I guess it doesn’t matter. The past is the past, right? I mean unless there really are ghosts.” He made an uncomfortable chuckle. “We'll be out of here soon, right?”

  “You do realize Ophelia probably knows about what’s happening here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She's a Jacobi.” Isabel swung.

  “You mean she's not coming back?”

  “I mean, I don’t want to be here when she does.” She broke off the bottom board. “Shine the light.”

  He shined the light at the opening but was having a hard time focusing again. It felt a bit like everything was behind frosted class.

  “Lillian!” Isabel called out. “Think you can make it through that?”

  Lillian emerged, looking as fragile as a molted snakeskin.

  Isabel reassured her. Isabel was always so kind with people, especially kids and the elderly. Grip followed her into the room where Daniel and Howard played together with the bread animals. Isabel and Howard would both make great parents.

  “I'll help Howard,” Isabel sa
id. “You take the lamp.”

  Grip picked up the lamp from the table. They had left the ax with Lillian, he realized. He rushed out into the hall to make sure the woman hadn't taken it. The ax still leaned against the 2x4s, untouched. He grabbed it. Lillian shrank away.

  “I won't hurt you.”

  She glanced at him through her wispy, hoar hair and seemed more shy than scared. Daniel took Lillian's hand, and she looked around as if she had heard something crawling in the attic. Grip didn't hear anything, but that didn’t mean much as there was still a ringing in his ears. He led the way down the hall with the lantern held high. The old woman and child followed close behind. Grip bounced off a wall but thankfully stayed on his feet. He needed to be more careful. He could feel blood trickling down his back.

  Howard and Isabel brought up the rear with the flashlight, just missing him losing his balance.

  “Whatever happens, we have to stop them,” Howard said.

  “He's right. We have to stop this from happening to anyone else.” Grip had never personally been raped, but he had let Porcelain Boy be violated for months without lifting a finger to stop it, just so Early wouldn’t be punished. This was a chance to make amends.

  “When we’re out of here, we'll call the police,” Isabel suggested.

  “The police?” Grip snorted. The police just made things worse. “It’s up to us, Izzi. It’s our responsibility.”

  “We’re saving Daniel and Lillian. That’s above and beyond.”

  “We could stop this. You don’t want this stopped?”

  While Isabel and Howard talked in harsh whispers to each other, Grip wondered to himself if the Cross of the Lamb wanted forgiveness too. Who was the Cross of the Lamb anyway? Was it the family next door? Was it the whole neighborhood? If they escaped would it be like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, where they would run for help, only to find that the common citizenry would just capture them and hand them back over to Leather Face?

  Grip descended into the entry room with Daniel and Lillian and held the lamp up to provide as much light as he could. He still wanted to talk about what had happened to Porcelain Boy. Confinement in Jacobi House wasn’t so different from being locked up in prison. Though, admittedly, men couldn’t get pregnant and have their children sacrificed. God, it was all so horrible. Grip decided his lovers didn't need to hear about his past. They needed to not fall down the fucking stairs.

  “Be careful!” Grip called from below.

  While agonizingly slow, Howard and Isabel made it to the ground floor with little trouble.

  “Grip, your arm!” Isabel took the ax from him.

  “I landed on the bottle. When I fell.”

  “His shoulder needs bandaged,” Howard said, and once they were all outside, suggested that they all go to the cellar.

  Grip asked if they had time and prodded his shoulder wound with his finger. Something in there was causing him a sharper pain than before. Whenever his shoulder hit a certain angle, his arm went limp. If he could just get it out. They shouldn't all have to go down to the cellar just on my account. While Howard and Isabel talked, Grip got a fingernail under something and snagged it out: a shard of glass. It felt surprisingly substantial between his thumb and index finger. He let it drop to the floorboards. The wound didn't hurt as much as it did before, though now his arm didn’t work, and blood gushed, warm and wet. “Okay, taking out the glass: bad idea.”

  “Oh God! Keep pressure on it! Grip! This is bad!”

  I'll be fine. It took Grip a moment to realize he hadn't said it out loud.

  The light flew away like a firefly, and Howard yelled after it.

  Grip placed his own hand over the wound. It's so wet! He followed Isabel and Howard down the steps and impressed himself by staying on his feet.

  “Can you make it?” Isabel called back to him as they made their way around the house.

  He tried to speak but couldn’t get the words out.

  They all climbed down the stairs into the underground.

  Grip saw through a haze. This under place was just a place. Not horror. Shadows moved, but they were surely hallucinations. There had been no threat above, only dead women. They had found a playful kid and a kind grandma in the house. They were all allies. There were no monsters, no attacks from the dark beyond; the cellar was still empty, save for downed crosses and an altar in the dark recesses. Nothing to fear.

  Grip sat on a cross. They were like church pews. My shirt, my shirt will be in the way. He peeled off his shirt with his good arm, though now even his good arm trembled and barely had enough strength to lift above his shoulders. His whole body hurt.

  Howard dabbed the wound.

  Darkness moved at the corners of Grip's eyes like ink from a squid. He needed to concentrate if he was going to stay conscious. “Shouldn't this be hurting more?” The words felt thick in his mouth. I'm drunk. That's what it is! I'm i-ne-bri-ated!

  “I can’t stop the bleeding unless I get the glass out.”

  There were more words, more talking, but Grip was distracted. Pain stung more and more, and he sucked in air. He looked to the altar room, not wanting to focus on the pain, not wanting to consider that his shoulder wound could be fatal, and his mind groped down the antechamber into the altar room and to the Book of Three in the near darkness.

  As the women played charades, Grip pictured Howard in a broad panorama image: Howard tracking down the English translation of the Book of Three in dunes under a massive sun, like Nathan Drake from an Uncharted game. Grip pictured the occult knife ordered off eBay. He winced as Howard dug into the wound. It stings like getting a tattoo! Grip smiled and continued to wince and returned to thoughts of Howard, the man he loved. Howard was the one who had heard about Jacobi Real Estate and brought them to the house. The Book. The Knife. The House. It could all be preparation for the ritual, a ritual that took place on the altar in the shadows at the end of the anteroom, a ritual to end the Cross of the Lamb, a ritual in the book, in the book Howard tracked down in the desert. Grip’s thoughts continued to go round and round in his head.

  “You know where a hacksaw is, to cut the chain? I’ll be back.” Isabel was fading away. “Love you both.”

  “We love you too,” Grip said automatically.

  “Be careful,” Howard said, holding pressure on the wound.

  Isabel followed Lillian upstairs out of the cellar. There was the rrriiip sound of duct tape unspooling.

  “It’s all out?” Grip asked. It felt good to be cared for, to have Howard so close.

  “That should hold it closed.” Howard reapplied pressure, his face close to Grip’s ear. “Grip. Grip, I know I haven’t always been . . . It wasn’t because of you. You weren’t doing anything wrong. It was me. I couldn’t tell you the truth.”

  “Daddy, is it time?” Daniel glanced at the altar room. “Is it time for The Forgiving?”

  You know, don't you kid? Grip thought. I'm the last to know. I'm always the last. There was baby Taylor, and now this.

  Howard pulled away and didn’t say anything for a long moment, and Grip rocked back and forth between the waves of pain that radiated from multiple points on his body. He was so tired!

  “You can tell me,” he said, slurring his words and hanging his head. He couldn't piece any more of it together without help. His mind was too fuzzy from blood loss.

  Howard clutched at his own shirt in anguish.

  Sympathy overcame Grip. Howard was suffering! “Come on. Help me up. Get me to the altar. Here, we need to go. Come on.” Grip didn't think past getting up; he just wanted to comfort Howard somehow.

  Howard wiped tears away with the back of his hand. He got under Grip’s shoulder and used his one good leg to help Grip to his feet.

  “Oh my God, I'm drunk!” Grip blurted. Everything spun. He was soaked with sweat.

  “You're not drunk. You've lost a lot of blood. You're delirious.”

  Daniel came out of a dark corner with an aluminum crutch. Howard tucked it under his
armpit. Before they started down the slope, they heard Isabel's voice from above.

  “Are you okay?”

  “We're fine,” Grip called back. “Is the gate open?”

  To Grip's relief, Isabel didn't come down the stairs. He didn’t want her to see this.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “Daniel,” Grip said, trying to sound solemn and cogent. “Stay by the stairs. Can you do that? Me and Daddy need to have a talk.”

  Daniel nodded and looked to Howard. Howard didn’t say anything, and Daniel went to the stairs like a good little soldier.

  “Why?” Howard said, after a few moments. “Why do we need to get to the altar?”

  “Because of the sacrifice from the book,” Grip said. “You need my help. I can help.” He snatched up the lantern. Together, he and Howard helped each other down the decline. It was tough going. As they moved forward, they were a lumbering mass of injured limbs. The heavy lantern bounced against Grip's leg. It reminded him of lugging a bucket of water from a well, only it was light that was spilling out everywhere.

  “It was you, wasn't it?” Grip said. “It was you. You did that, to the women—or your people did. And you want it to stop. I would want it to stop too.” Darkness crawled along the walls at the corner of his eyes, escorting them as if on their way to a wedding. Early had raped Porcelain Boy, and Howard had raped these women. It was all happening again. Life was caught in a loop.

  A moment of silence stretched between them. Then Howard said without emotion, “The woman tied to the chair, she was a prostitute we found on Fremont. She did that to herself, so she couldn’t get pregnant again. She was the last one.”

  “I know you, Howard.” Grip fought to keep his head up, every part of him exhausted. He didn't want to fall. “You’re good. Why would you—”

  “I was born to do this.”

  “But . . .” Howard wasn’t Early. Howard was a good person. He was tender and loving. He would do anything to protect Isabel. “No. Howard, that's not you! You’re trying to end it.”