Devil in Ohio

by Daria Polatin

  One of the priests stepped over to the side of the platform and took a small silver box from an altar boy, a fresh-faced kid of about ten. Another priest took a seemingly full silver chalice from another altar boy. It looked like it was time for communion.

  Then, a man entered the stage. He was dressed like the other priests—long black robes—but on his head, instead of wearing a hood, he wore a mask:

  A ram’s head with horns spiraling upward.

  He must have been some kind of high priest. All in black, and with the ram’s head covering his face—

  He was fucking scary.

  They handed the high priest the silver chalice. He chanted some sort of prayer over the cup of what I guessed was wine. Although I didn’t recognize the words, I heard “Satana” again.

  Didn’t take a genius to translate what that meant.

  The men’s side of the congregation shuffled to standing, and they filed toward the center aisle, forming a line.

  I kept scanning the women’s side for Mae but couldn’t spot her. I had to find her quickly. I needed to get out of here.

  As the male congregants moved forward down the aisle, they stepped up to the platform. There they each received a wafer from a priest, then sipped from the chalice of wine from the high priest ram guy.

  As the men’s line eventually started to shorten, the women stood and filed into line behind them. Through the crowd of women I saw a swath of black hair. My heart raced, but then the black-haired woman turned, and her field-tanned face revealed that she wasn’t Mae.

  Up on the platform, my eye caught sight of a teenage girl stepping out onto the stage. There weren’t any other women involved in the ceremony, so I wondered what she was doing up there.

  A few other young women like the first walked over and stood next to her.

  Then, each one of the young women unbuttoned the cuff of her dress and rolled her heavy sleeve up her arm, exposing flesh.

  An altar boy carried another silver chalice over to one of the priests standing at the end of the row of women. He nodded to an older woman with a gray bun, who put something around the upper arm of the first woman. Was she tying something?

  My eyes focused to see: a tourniquet.

  The gray bun woman then put something into the arm of the young woman.

  A syringe.

  The needle of the syringe was attached to a tube, which snaked into the silver chalice held by the altar boy.

  These people weren’t drinking wine—they were drinking blood.

  Holy shit.

  The young woman’s face drained pale. The older woman then removed the needle and placed something where the needle had been, a cotton ball or something.

  The altar boy transported the chalice to the main priest, who was distributing the liquid to the congregation. He took the full chalice of blood and handed the boy the empty one. The boy then carried the cup over to the row of women, where the older woman had moved on to drawing blood from the second girl.

  My stomach tumbled. This was insane. These people were drinking human blood! I was glad I hadn’t eaten dinner or I might have thrown up.

  I had to stay focused. I had to find Mae.

  I scanned the line of women waiting for “communion,” but none of them looked like Mae. Mom had been convinced that Mae would be here. And where else would I go to find her? All the houses looked empty, and they were all the same.

  The women’s line in the aisle was starting to wind down, the last young women on stage who was giving her lifeblood now anemically pulling her sleeve back down.

  When they were finished, the altar boys began clearing up the chalices and wafers, and everyone took their seats. The high priest stalked behind a table and took out a wooden box.

  He opened it and withdrew a long, thick horsewhip.

  “Ave Satana, may the power of our great Lord of Darkness be upon you.”

  “And also with you,” the congregation returned in unison.

  The ram-headed priest addressed his flock.

  “In the eyes of our Lord, we are all sinners. And it is our duty”—he paused for emphasis—“to confess to him our sins, so that He may forgive us—be pleased with us—and we may walk with him, into the darkness and beyond. Praise be to our great Lord.”

  “Amen,” the group returned.

  The congregation listened attentively.

  “We invoke His name, so that he may be the great manifestor of justice, as we repent for our sins, and so please our Lord.”

  He then began to recite:

  “O ye sons and daughters of mildewed minds, that sit in judgment of the inequities wrought upon me—Behold! The voice of Satan; the promise of Him who is called amongst ye the accuser and the supreme tribune! Move therefore, and appear! Open the mysteries of your creation! Be friendly unto me, for I am the same! The true worshipper of the highest and ineffable King of Hell.”

  The incantation sounded like what Mae had recited in the graveyard. I wondered if it was another one of those Enochian things Zeke had mentioned.

  The priest then turned his attention to his captive audience. “Who before me lies in wait to confess their sins?” he probed.

  A few members of the congregation stood up and shuffled into the center aisle.

  The first man arrived at the front of the room. He was a brawny guy, in his thirties or so, his sandy-haired head hung low in shame.

  “Brother Eli,” the priest acknowledged.

  “If He be pleased,” the man returned quietly.

  “Behold!” the high priest declared. “This sheep has confessed … to theft!”

  The congregation grumbled its disapproval.

  The priest went on. “He hath stolen grain from his brethren. He hath sinned in the eyes of our Lord. Only He will grant you forgiveness. You must atone for your offense.”

  The priest signaled for the man to lift his shirt. The man followed orders, lifting it up over his back, and knelt to the ground at the priest’s black-booted feet.

  The priest then raised the horsewhip and beat the man vigorously.

  THWACK!

  THWACK!

  The whole congregation watched without a shred of sympathy as this man was beaten for his sin. After a few hits the man crumpled to the ground in agony.

  “Face your master!” the high priest demanded. “Do not be a coward in the eyes of our Lord!”

  Using all his remaining strength, the man lifted himself back up off the floor with a whimper, onto his hands and knees.

  The priest THWACKED again. Blood spilled down the man’s back.

  I had to look away.

  After the priest was done, the man crawled to the side of the stage, where the gray-bunned woman placed a blanket over his bleeding back. The able-bodied man had been diminished to a pile of trembling limbs and silent tears.

  As the next man stepped forward to the priest to confess his sin, something in the back of the room caught my eye.

  Behind the last row on the women’s side, I saw someone enter.Black hair glinted in the candlelight.

  It was Mae.

  She was wearing a long strappy white dress, which might have been the one she had worn for her Carrie costume. They would surely punish her just for wearing something so exposing and clingy.

  She adjusted the dress, readying to head toward the center aisle and presumably confess her sins. Which meant she would receive punishment.

  I had to stop her.

  It was too far to call to her without anyone hearing. My mind raced to strategize if I had enough time to sneak back out through the side door and around to the main entrance in the back of the hall.

  Mae smoothed down her hair.

  I had to get to her before she went up to that altar. I could crouch down, slip out from behind the curtain, and crawl my way over to her from behind the pews, but it was risky. What if one of these people caught me? I saw what they were willing to do to people they did know—what would they do to a complete stranger like me?
r />   Everything went black.

  CHAPTER 46

  SUZANNE COULD BARELY KEEP STILL—SHE HAD TO FIND Jules and Mae.

  Before she thought better of it, she opened the car door, pointed her crutches out, and heaved herself from the passenger seat.

  As the cold night air hit her cheeks, Suzanne looked beyond the barn to where the church steeple protruded over the rooftops.

  She crutched toward it, making her way down the eerily quiet streets.

  She passed darkened home after home, until something caught her eye. Through a crack in the window curtains, Suzanne saw something and leaned her face to the windowpane.

  Her jaw dropped:

  Through the drapes, Suzanne saw a small child, suspended upside-down on an inverted cross.

  The child was hanging in some kind of closet, but the door was left open. The child’s feet were tied to the upper part of the cross, and the arms were fastened at the hands out to the sides. It appeared as though the child was gagged, but it was hard to tell because it was so dark inside, lit only by the flickering embers of a hearth fire.

  Suzanne had been told about this ritual by Mae. It was a technique the cult used to weed out the “weak” children, so only the “strong” would survive. They had done it to Mae, which left her with scars on her palms—a sickening reminder of where she came from.

  Suzanne had to get photographic evidence. She needed this to build her case against the cult, to get justice for what they had done to Mae, and to other children. People needed to be punished for this abuse.

  Suzanne slipped her phone out from her jacket pocket and snapped a picture through the glass. It was hard to see what the image was from so far away. She tried zooming in, but the light was too low. She had to get a better shot.

  The house looked empty. She glanced up and down the small street, checking that there was no one in sight, then—her heart pounding—she reached for the door handle. The cold brass fastener stiffly—

  Unlocked.

  She slowly inched open the door and, hearing only silence, crutched inside.

  Suzanne looked around. There were a few pieces of uncomfortable-looking wooden furniture. There were no pillows or cushions, no artwork, no photos. Nothing that gave comfort.

  A woodstove glowed in the center of the living room, burning logs fueling the low light. Suzanne made her way past the stove, over to the closet where the toddler was suspended.

  The poor boy hung fastened upside-down. He was awake, but not crying. He had probably grown numb to the pain.

  Suzanne’s eyes welled.

  It pained her, but she had to take his photo as evidence.

  After snapping a few pictures, she stared at the boy. She couldn’t let herself leave this poor thing there. She needed to take him down. But how? She had to get the nails out of his hands; was there a way to do that without hurting him further? Maybe there was something she could find to ease out the nails? If she could get him out of there she could call an ambulance once they got back into cell phone range.

  “Well well well,” a gruff voice came from behind her. “Still tryin’ ta save the world, are we.”

  Suzanne turned to see: the sheriff.

  CHAPTER 47

  A QUIET CRUNCH FILLED MY EARS AS I slowly turned my head.

  My forehead pounded. I tried to search my brain for why it ached so much, but I couldn’t think.

  I cracked open my eyes, but it was as dark as having my eyes closed.

  Where was I?

  I moved my hand to scratch my face, only to discover that it wouldn’t move. I tried the other, but that wouldn’t budge either. I slowly realized that my hands were tied together behind my back.

  What. The. Eff.

  I pulled myself up to sitting and heard that soft crunching again. I was sitting on something with texture, like a beanbag chair. Tilting my head up, all my eyes could see was darkness stretching high above.

  I was not sitting on a beanbag. I was at the bottom of a grain storage silo.

  I could now feel that my feet were also tied. Beyond my legs, I spied a dark shadow.

  A man was standing over me.

  My eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness. He appeared a few years older than me and was tall and muscular. I caught a glimpse of a marking on his bicep beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeve: a pentagram.

  “You two don’t look that alike after all,” he concluded, staring down at me. This was the fireman who had tried to kidnap me in the woods!

  “I figured out you weren’t her,” he went on, “but by then it seemed a little late to let you go. You were a fast one, though.”

  I couldn’t see his face, but the way he said it sounded like he was smiling, relishing this moment of power.

  “But you are a traitor,” he said, stepping toward me, his tenor voice almost kind. “Like her.”

  I could see his face now. Handsome, square jaw, jet-black hair. And green eyes—

  Just like Mae’s.

  “Haskell, don’t.”

  I heard a rustling a few yards away. There was another figure lying on the grain.

  Mae. Tied up like me.

  He turned to her. “And we always knew you’d come back. Couldn’t stay away. You know where you belong,” he continued, stepping over to Mae.

  He knelt down and took her face in his hand. “Maybe that’s because you always knew it was your fault.”

  What was Mae’s fault?

  Mae didn’t answer. She sniffled in the darkness.

  “You were supposed to be watching her, weren’t you. You let her drown, right before your eyes. You let your own sister die.”

  He must have been talking about Amelia.

  “And what’s even worse”—his voice lowered to nearly a whisper—“you let me take the fall.”

  Mae didn’t respond. I could hear her sharp intakes of breath.She was sobbing.

  “I took sixty-six lashes. Sixty-six … Do you know how much that hurt? I still can’t sleep on my back.”

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Mae blurted back, her voice shaking through tears. “She wanted to do it. She wanted to die!”

  “But you let her!” His voice rose, echoing off the circular metal walls. “You let your flesh and blood die, and blamed your own brother!”

  He stood, seething. “If I had known better, I wouldn’t have taken the fall for you. Especially if I knew you were going to betray us all.” His heavy boots crunched the grain as he paced.

  “I was going to turn myself in, Haskell. That’s why I came back,” Mae reasoned.

  “Good,” he concluded. “I’ve been trying to get you to come back for months. Glad you finally got the message.”

  So someone had been trying to get Mae back. Her very own brother.

  “I knew you’d be back sooner or later. Of course you came back on the harvest moon,” he smirked.

  Mae sniffed again. I had no idea she’d had a hand in her sister’s death. That’s why she was so haunted by it. If I’d known it had happened this time last year, I never would’ve triggered her to come back now. Or, come to think of it, triggered her at all. The guilt I felt for causing this whole thing made my body feel like turning inside out. I ached to leave. Click my heels and get out of here. Disappear so this nightmare would end.

  “Why didn’t you let me turn myself in, then?” Mae challenged her brother. “That’s what I was going to do in church.”

  “I wanted to bring you myself. Then you would have to tell them the truth: that it wasn’t my fault. Then Father would finally forgive me.”

  Haskell’s voice lowered. “Then I’d watch Father give you every lash he gave to me.”

  I wondered if their father was the high priest in the church wearing the ram mask. The one who had beat that man …

  “I’d watch you suffer the way I suffered,” Haskell condemned his sister. “Take every whip, tearing the flesh of your back apart—”

  “No!” I shouted before I could stop myself. “Please don’t hur
t her.”

  I knew it was my fault that Mae had come back. I couldn’t be responsible for her being dealt even more pain.

  Haskell turned to me and stepped over.

  “Too bad you had to drag your friend into it,” he scolded his sister. “We’ll have to punish her too.”

  He knelt down and looked right at me. My heart was pounding so loud but I couldn’t breathe.

  This was it. Mae’s cult brother was going to kill me.

  Mae kicked herself up to her knees. “Stop it, Haskell! Jules had nothing to do with this! I’m the one you want,” she declared. “Take me. I’ll do whatever you want. Just please, let her go.”

  Mae was offering herself up for me, risking her life. And I was the one who had put us in this situation. I could feel bile rising in my stomach, nauseous over what I had done.

  “Always the brave one,” Haskell tsked, shaking his head at his sister. “Mother used to say that was one of the great things about you. But how wrong she was. Now all she talks about is the shame you’ve brought upon our family. What a disgrace you are.

  “But I’m going to bring honor back,” he concluded. “You are going to be the sacrificial lamb to right the wrong. They’ll whip you for your sins and then hang you on the cross to pay for what you’ve done. In death you’ll be forever in service to our Lord.

  “And in return, they’ll make me a priest—just like Father.” I could hear a smile in his voice. “Mother will be so proud.”

  I shivered. This couldn’t be happening. They were going to kill us both.

  Haskell headed for the door to the silo. “If I were you I’d take this time to make peace with Him. Your time has come…” The warning hanging like the last strains of a sermon, Haskell let the door slam behind him.

  Now alone, I could hear Mae crying.

  “Mae!” I whispered. “We have to get out of here!”

  “I’m so sorry, Jules. I’m so sorry I got you into this—”

  “It’s not your fault. We have to leave—”

  “Yes, it is. I deserve death. I don’t deserve life with you and your family. I don’t deserve people being nice to me. I killed my sister, and this is my punishment.” She sobbed.