Worship Me

by Craig Stewart

  “Yes,” Clara said, as she turned to face him.

  “Clara, there you are. Could you please go check on the children downstairs?”

  “Actually, Susan is with them right now.”

  “Go to the children in the basement and keep them there, please.” His tone shifted and Clara was forced to obey.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And keep all the children down there until I say, understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “All the children,” Don repeated looking directly at Alex.

  “Okay, Don.” Clara turned to Angela and the two of them exchanged a worried look. Clara waited for Angela to make a move, as she wasn’t about to snatch Alex away from her.

  There was no way for Angela to leave with Alex now. The best thing for them to do was to play along and slip away once things had calmed down. If only she had moved faster, she and Alex would be home. Not here, not in this mess, she thought. But, there was no sense in harping on what could have been. How to deal with the current situation, this was Angela’s new problem, and one she intended to solve.

  So, she smiled and nodded before she let Alex out of her arms and into Clara’s.

  “Mom?” Alex asked, looking panicked.

  Angela leaned down to his level and spoke with her bedtime voice. This gentle vocal tone was normally used to sooth Alex’s night terrors and to distract him from the abominations that lurked in the bowels of his closet. She used it now for that very same purpose.

  “It’s okay, sweetie. Everything’s going to be all right. Go with Clara. I’ll see you soon.” Her eyes shifted away from her son and up to her friend. “I’ll come for you both as soon as I can.”

  Clara smiled and wrapped her arm around Alex’s shoulders. They headed toward the basement together.

  “Alex...” Angela added just before he descended the stairs. He stopped and looked at her. Angela was supposed to say she loved him, but she found herself overcome with questions. Was she making a mistake? Should she just take Alex and run? What about the mob and their pitchforks? As she second and third guessed herself, only one thing felt certain, and it was staring her right in the face. Alex. He looked at her as if he would wait patiently for her, no matter what, no matter how long. He needed her, as she needed him.

  By the time the shock of her child’s candid gaze wore off, Clara and Alex were gone. Angela knew he was in good hands, but the sooner they could disappear, the better. She stared at the basement doorway for nearly a minute, until Susan emerged to rejoin the congregation. Then, Angela’s attention reverted back to the panic at hand.

  Don and Dorothy had separated themselves from the group to continue their frank discussion that was interrupted earlier. Angela maneuvered herself around the fringe of the congregation to hear what was so important that it must be kept secret. She nudged her way along, careful to avoid the conspirator’s line of sight. She was close enough now to make out their whispers.

  “Rick is missing,” Don said, heavy with concern.

  “Missing?” questioned Dorothy. “Where could he have gone?”

  “Bruce was waiting for him in the office. He was supposed to come get me as soon as Rick was washed and dressed. He never came. Now, both of them are missing.”

  “Both? Where have you looked?”

  “I waited, but they never came. The first place I looked was the sanctuary, and that’s when I saw it.”

  “Saw what?”

  Don’s voice found a quieter, more reticent volume, and Angela was forced to move even closer to decipher it. The danger became one of proximity. In order to catch what he had to say, she would need to be right at Dorothy’s ear.

  Unfortunately Emily emerged like one of Clara’s wall dividers and cut secret agent Angela off from her target. It was an annoying move, made even more annoying by the fact that it was Emily.

  “What do you make of that wild wind, Angela? What do you think it was?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see it.”

  “No, you were in the parking lot. That’s right. Were you going somewhere?”

  “No. I was just about to bring Alex out for the picnic, but I had to grab something from the car first. Good thing we were a little late getting ready.”

  “Oh, I see. That makes sense.” It was clear Emily meant the exact opposite of what she said and it was also clear she wanted Angela to know it.

  “Is there anything else you wanted to ask, Emily?” Angela had grown tired of the needling. If Emily was going to be a prick, Angela thought she might as well be honest about it.

  “No, I was just wondering where you two were headed, that’s all.”

  “So, you were worried about us, is that it?”

  “I wondered where you were, yes.”

  “In that case, Emily, thanks for your concern,” Angela’s smile did not flinch as she continued, “but now that you know exactly what we were doing, maybe you can concern yourself with someone else for a change. You might even be able to mind your own fucking business for once.” The words just slipped out as natural as breath itself. They tasted sweet. It took a second for Angela to realize she had spoken them aloud, but once she did, she had no regrets. No more hiding, it was time for truth.

  “Angela, I don’t know where this anger is coming from, or why you feel you need to speak to me that way, but...” Before Emily could continue, Angela cut her off.

  “Maybe because you’re interrogating me like a Russian mobster.”

  “That’s absurd. I’m just talking.”

  “Please...you’re a plier away from systematically removing each of my fingernails. You’ve had a thing against me since Rick went missing. I’m sick of your petty vendetta and your nasty little whispers.”

  “This isn’t the place for your temper tantrum,” Emily said and pivoted her head around to make sure no one had noticed their argument.

  “No shit. I couldn’t agree more. Only, I’m not the one who ambushed me, so I don’t really have a choice in the matter.”

  “It wasn’t an ambush. Honestly, I don’t know why you’re being so aggressive right now. All I wanted to know was where you were. God forgive me for showing concern.”

  “You don’t care about me or Alex. I can’t imagine what you actually care about.”

  “I’m glad you’re leaving the church. There’s a certain respect we show each other here. If I disagree with someone, I’m civil about it. You aren’t. You think you’re better than us. Well, unlike you, I don’t judge people. That’s not my job, it’s His. And He alone has that right. But if I’m speaking freely, I’ll pray tonight that God judges you kindly, though, I doubt it will help.”

  “What did I do to make you hate me?” Angela stripped the conversation to its bare bones. It was the only question she cared to hear answered. A speedy, honest response from Emily would end the confrontation in its tracks.

  Emily did not say anything, only stared back at her accuser. In the silence, Angela knew Emily was holding onto something and whatever it was it was putrefying within her.

  “I don’t hate you,” the response finally came, “but I do blame you.”

  Angela was shocked. The statement sent her into a spiral. What blame had Emily referred to? Did she mean Rick’s disappearance?

  A shattering scream ripped through the room and broke apart the tension that had been snowballing between the two women. Every head turned to see what had triggered it.

  A middle-aged woman hugged the side of the doorframe leading into the sanctuary. Her face was pointed into the room, locked in a state of repulsion and hysteria – a most distressing mix. Her scream ran its course and then devolved into a series of whimpers.

  “Oh, Lord,” Don muttered to himself.

  The entire congregation approached in unison, not only to help the poor woman, but also to witness for themselves the source of her terror.

  CHAPTER 18

  Astonishingly, the first person to make it into the sanctuary was Doroth
y. She stumbled past the terrified woman – who grabbed frantically at her dress – and gawked upward at the pulpit.

  Her eyes immediately sought out her precious tapestry. It was the subdued blue of the fabric that made the new splashes of red so abrasive to the eye.

  The scene of peaceful prayer had been defiled by obscene streaks of crimson blood applied with the most audacious of sensibilities. From the bird’s mouth came a flow of gore that poured out into the open hands like a teapot. The blood had saturated the fabric and overflowed down to the base of the wall itself. All the dripping gave the tapestry a sad quality. But, the bloody tears did not end there. The podium itself dripped with red as if it were a candle and the blood its wax. Spotty smudges hinted toward a struggle of some kind, perhaps even a slaughter.

  As Dorothy took in the ghastly display before her, her mind managed one quick, practical observation: there was no way something could still be walking around after losing that much blood, so, where was the body?

  A dozen more congregation members filtered in with stunned silence at first, but after a few moments, there were some fitting gasps and uncomfortable murmurs.

  Half an hour earlier, everyone was outside in merriment setting up for their weekly picnic; now, they were standing in the middle of a macabre Sir Francis Bacon painting.

  “My God.” Dorothy was the first to speak. She crept down the aisle using the pews to keep herself steady. She stopped halfway at some droplets that had splattered on the floor, but was close enough to smell the conflicting mix of sweaty metal and fresh flowers that wrestled in the air.

  “What the fuck?” Chris had consolidated everyone’s shock into one simple question and announced it with considerable volume.

  “Who would do this?” Gary asked.

  “We were all outside,” added Dorothy.

  “Not all of us.” This spiteful comment slithered from Emily’s viperous lips. Her not-so-subtle accusation was punctuated by a nasty glare.

  Angela’s eyes did not meet Emily’s, nor did she acknowledge the juvenile attack. She had only recently stepped into the sanctuary and was instead taking in the newly painted room. The matters of her escape with Alex, or even of Rick’s ill-timed return, were both momentarily muted by whatever viciousness had recently taken place. It was a morbid mystery that begged to be solved, despite the fact that the solution undoubtedly promised more horrors to come.

  Almost unanimously, the congregation shared the sensation of having been violated. This was their sacred space where God made sure no sin could thrive, where pain and suffering were unknown, where the vile beasts of the world dared not enter. Yet, here was their church, besmirched and desecrated, reduced to nothing more than a slaughterhouse. And the lambs started screaming.

  “People, please!” Don hollered. “This is an absolutely grotesque vandalism, but we won’t find out who did this unless they come forth. We can’t start accusing each other at random. That’s not what we do. I suggest we all head back into the mess hall.”

  “We need to call the police.”

  Don responded quickly. “Yes, of course. We will. But we don’t need to do it here. Please, into the mess hall.”

  “Someone should clean it up before it starts to smell.” Gary added.

  “I’m afraid we need to wait for the police first, Gary.”

  “Good luck getting the smell out then,” Tina said and rested a supportive hand on her husband’s shoulder.

  “Alright, we can talk about how to handle this situation in the other room. Now, we’ve all seen what’s here to be seen, so let us all take our leave. Please.” Exaggerated hand gestures accompanied Don’s reasoning.

  He began to lead people out of the sanctuary, but was interrupted by a feeble moan that fluttered forth from behind the pulpit.

  “Did everyone hear that?” asked Dorothy. She was the closest to the front and therefore the first to hear the waning voice.

  No one answered, but everyone froze.

  The moan came again, only this time with a pinch more agony. The cries built as if every moment for the sufferer was more tortured than the last. The echo in the room kept the puling alive, soaking into the space.

  “I hear it,” said Susan.

  “No shit,” Chris snapped at her.

  “I think it’s coming from the...” Dorothy did not finish her sentence – there was no need.

  Two shivering hands crawled up to the top of the pulpit. The fingers wrapped around its wood trim like the legs of a tarantula clasping at its next meal. The knuckles had been shaved to the bone, exposing the shifting joints as they popped in and out of place while the hands formed their grip. As they twisted in the light, the pale skin glistened in an unflattering mixture of blood and sweat.

  The cries escalated to new, unnerving heights, as Bruce pulled himself up into view. His head was marked with two deep gashes that split the sides of his face and claimed both of his eyes. Clotted blood crowded his wounds and peppered his quivering mouth. He let out another excruciating wail and cocked his head in all directions like he was sniffing for a response. When he opened his jaws, his cheeks opened too, displaying the full cruelty of his wounds. His molars peeked through the slits and winked in the light at the onlookers. His eyebrows no longer rose in unison; each half was a delayed reaction to the other, pulling in separate directions. What was left of his eyes oozed from his sockets and pooled into the wounds.

  Dorothy did not scream; the sight of Bruce was beyond that. For some of the other members, however, screaming was the only option.

  Although Bruce had no eyes, his sight seemed inexplicably fixated on Susan. He stared at her with two hollowed crevices the way a lifeless statue does. She could not bear the vision and hid her face from him. There, into her own hands, she screamed. Her fingers felt her eyes as if to make certain they had not been lost, too.

  “Bruce!” Don yelled and scrambled next to Dorothy. “In Christ’s name...”

  Bruce’s hand beckoned for Don to approach. It waved him forward meekly with a slippery, almost seductive gesture.

  It was true Don knew intellectually of cruelty, and of murder, and adultery, and torture, and of genocides and holocausts, of tragedies and disasters, of killings and killers, executions and executioners, but this savagery was always of another time, in another place. It was never standing, bleeding in front of him, moaning and putrid. His own words haunted him: God allowed this. God allowed the blades to enter Bruce’s face, allowed them to take his eyes, allowed them to coat the walls in his blood like a child’s finger-painting. God is great. This is what Don believed; this is what he preached from the pulpit. Did he have the rectitude to do it again? This question disturbed him as much as Bruce’s slippery grip that now leaked in his hand.

  “Don Hooper!” a voice erupted. Don felt the bass from it rattle deep in his body. It was so powerful in fact, that, at first, he believed it to be the voice of God. “Step back,” it commanded.

  With his hand still wrapped around Bruce’s, Don looked back at his congregation to see if they too heard the voice. Their frightened looks told him they had.

  From a corner of the room that was dipped in shadow, Rick stood to his full six feet. His dark blue robe hung from his body and draped down to his ankles as if it were tailor made. His feet, though still bare, were no longer bleeding. His imperial posture puffed out his chest and asserted his authority, making it immediately clear who was the lion and who was the mouse.

  “Rick... In the name of God what have you done?” Don tried to match the boom of Rick’s voice, but failed.

  “I’ve done nothing in the name of your God.” Each word growled out of his mouth, as if coming from the throat of a feral beast.

  “Bruce,” Don said, turning back to his marred friend, “can you hear me? We’re going to get you some help. Someone call an ambulance!”

  “I forbid you,” Rick proclaimed.

  “Forbid me? How dare you!”

  Rick took a step toward Don and the churc
h, itself, quaked on cue. It was the same sound as before, only this time there was no storm to blame for the cracks and creaks. Each step brought the building new shivers, as if it were sickened by his very presence.

  Angela watched, along with the others, in hushed terror as her husband closed in on Don. She recognized nothing of Rick. His voice, his gravitas; it was like he had transformed, emerged from a chrysalis with a new sense of inhuman despotism.

  “He’s marked,” Rick continued, “ as you all will be. In time you will come to see it as a blessing.”

  “God damn you!” The persona of calming wisdom Don had embodied for years was dispelled in a matter of seconds as his blistering anger took hold. “You degenerate monster! May the smite of the Lord fall upon you with all His fury for what you have done.”

  Rick halted his approach.

  “Dorothy! Bruce needs bandages. Go call for an ambulance, and bring the police here. Go now!” Don shouted.

  Dorothy snapped out of her trance and bolted toward the door.

  “Dorothy.” The calmness in Rick’s voice was unsettling. “You won’t leave this room. None of you will leave this room. Come, be seated.” He opened his arms welcomingly like a true preacher.

  His lips parted and the edges of his mouth reached for his ears. His teeth and eyes reflected unnatural light – a cheery beacon shining through the gore and chaos splattered behind him; one could not help but feel the preciousness of life was being mocked by the display.

  Despite his command, no one moved a muscle.

  Angela stepped forth, singling herself out from the crowd. As she was the one who had shared a life, a bed, and a child with this man, she felt a responsibility to try to appeal to his compassion. Having personally tasted his cruelty before, Angela knew he had hidden levels of depravity, but she never dreamed him capable of butchery on this scale. Still, if any part of the old Rick remained, she had to find it.

  She walked up the aisle to the spot where Dorothy had been. Her voice was soft, like the one she had used to comfort Alex. Just beneath this placidity, however, was a pounding heart and racing breath.