Littlefield

by Scott Nicholson

  David handed the rifle to Frank. He glanced at the belfry, at the quivering fabric of darkness. Frank took the rifle.

  It was heavy and awkward in his hands. He’d never liked guns much. He’d hunted as a boy, had shown enough targeting skill to earn his police certification, but had rarely fired a gun since. He’d stopped wearing a holster piece when he’d been elected sheriff eight years ago.

  “What if you’re wrong?” Frank said to David.

  “He’s not wrong,” Sheila said. “Archer says sacrifice is the currency of God.”

  Frank’s jaw tightened. “What did you say?”

  Sheila fell silent, her face pale in the moonlight. Frank was about to ask her again, to slap her, to do something to drive her words from his memory, to make her take them back and swallow them, but the day died as he stood before her.

  Midnight.

  The air screamed with the first toll of the bell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  This is just like the Baptist church, Ronnie thought. Nothing to be scared of here. They’re just passing the plate, taking up money for God. So what if Reverend McFall’s sermons are a little wacky? When you think about it, Preacher Staymore’s gone off the deep end a time or two.

  In the pew in front of him, Mama Bet took the plate, her hands trembling. The reverend pulled the cloth from the heaping plate. Tim wrinkled his nose, then pinched it closed. Other members of the congregation craned their necks, trying to see the offering.

  “Shoo,” Tim said. “Something smells like donkey crap.”

  Ronnie elbowed Tim at the same time that Mom squeezed Tim’s forearm. “Ow,” he yelped.

  “Shh,” Mom whispered. “Show some respect in church.”

  That was just what Dad always said. This place was getting more and more like the Baptist church with every second. If you could forget that it was the middle of the night and that the red church was haunted, why, you might as well be in any of them. You still had to be quiet whenever somebody performed some ritual or other. You had to pretend like you were paying attention, and you couldn’t talk or laugh. You had to sit up straight and stay awake.

  And sitting up straight was getting harder and harder to do. The pain pill Ronnie had taken before bedtime was kicking in. His thoughts spread fat and happy, the joy juice was sloshing around in his brain, the hard wooden pew felt like cotton candy under his bottom. He was almost having fun in church. If old Preacher Staymore could see him now, then Ronnie would be in for a serious session of heart-opening, head-bowing penance.

  Mama Bet held the plate, then bent and mumbled what sounded like prayers. Becca Faye’s and Sonny’s faces both curdled in disgust. Stepford held his nose closed as if he were diving into a swimming hole. If something stank that bad, Ronnie was glad his nose was packed with gauze. He almost giggled. That pain pill was sure doing a number on his head.

  Mama Bet reached into the plate, and Ronnie leaned forward for a closer look. Mama Bet was putting whatever was in the plate to her mouth. Dad said that the Catholics ate bread and pretended it was Jesus’ body, and drank wine pretending it was the blood of the Lamb. But this looked even weirder than that.

  A string of thick fluid escaped from Mama Bet’s fingers. It glistened in the candlelight, looking for all the world like . . .

  The happy pill was definitely messing with him. Because it looked like blood dripping from her hand, but before he could get another look, she had put the stuff in her mouth and started chewing.

  “Gross,” Tim said.

  Mom didn’t even pinch him this time, because she was gripping the back of Mama Bet’s pew so hard that her fingers were white. She had a strange smile on her face. Mama Bet smacked her lips as she worked the offering.

  “The body of God,” the reverend said.

  “Amen,” Mama Bet responded, the word sloppy because of her chewing.

  Archer McFall took the plate from her and stepped to the end of the next pew. Mom eagerly looked up at him, and he held out the plate to her. Tim edged away from her until he was pressing against Ronnie. Mom reached out, her eyes bright as ice, and Ronnie saw what was in the offering plate.

  Clumps of tattered meat.

  Moist, raw, and stringy.

  Barf-out. She’s not EATING that stuff, is she?

  Mom took a morsel between her fingers and brought it to her lips. She bit down and turned and smiled at Tim and Ronnie. Bits of the pink meat dangled between her teeth. Ronnie’s stomach tumbled and knotted.

  “The body of God,” Archer McFall said. He reached out and patted Tim’s head. Then he looked at Ronnie. McFall’s eyes were as deep as quarry holes, black and hiding secrets. Ronnie shivered and tried to look away, but the man’s gaze held him hypnotized.

  It’s the PAIN PILL, dummy. You’ve fallen asleep and you’re just having a stupid dream. Little snakes are NOT squiggling in his eyes.

  “Amen,” Mom said in response to the reverend’s blessing. She passed the plate to Tim, who slid back in his seat away from it. Ronnie moved away, too, but Sonny Absher pressed against him from the other side.

  “Where you going, runt?” Sonny said, his lips curled in menace.

  Ronnie looked wildly about the church. Whizzer made a chewing motion with his mouth and leered at him. Mama Bet nodded encouragement, her rheumy eyes like pails of rainwater. McFall leaned forward, his mouth hanging open.

  Worms. Worms between his teeth.

  “Come on, Timmy,” Mom said, her voice creepy and soothing. “It’s good for you.”

  She nudged the plate against his arm. Some of the grue slopped over onto Tim’s flesh, and he stared it. He looked at Mom, eyebrows raised.

  “Do it, honey,” she said. “Let the reverend bless you.”

  Tim reached toward the offering plate.

  No. NO. NOOOO.

  Ronnie reached out and slapped Tim’s hand away. The plate flipped out of Mom’s hand, hitting the back of the pew and splashing into Mama Bet’s face. The viscid blood clung to her wrinkles, small tatters of pulpy flesh on her checks.

  McFall roared, his voice thundering, the wooden shell of the church vibrating with his rage.

  And the bell struck.

  The coppery, heavy taste of the communion filled Linda’s mouth, her heart, her soul. She felt strong, reborn, just as she had in California in the Temple of the Two Suns. Just like always.

  She lovingly held the offering out to Tim, and he was almost convinced, almost saved, almost there, when Ronnie knocked the plate away.

  Archer’s anger was radiating in waves of heat beside her. He wasn’t angry over the spilled offering; no, there was plenty more where that came from, and a little dirt never hurt the sacramental flesh. But Archer couldn’t abide betrayal in any form.

  Neither could Linda.

  God knew she loved her boys, but Ronnie was getting to be a real pain in the rump. Ronnie was displeasing Archer. Ronnie was sitting there with that defiant look in his eyes, looking so much like his dad did when he set his mind to something. It was that same stupid Christian stubbornness, the look that said, Don’t tell ME there’s another path to God.

  Well, she wasn’t going to let Ronnie get into the clutches of that devil-worm Jesus without a fight.

  But she wouldn’t have to fight alone.

  She smiled as the bell’s long arcing note rattled her eardrums.

  Now would come the cleansing, the true reason Archer had been sent to this earth.

  Perhaps it didn’t matter that the vessel had not been fully prepared, that the sacred meat had not passed his lips. He still needed to be given to God.

  Ronnie needed to die for the glory of Archer, of Wendell McFall, of the old families. He needed to pay for the iniquities of the Days. Most of all, he needed to die for the greater glory of herself. God would surely smile upon this great sacrifice she was making.

  Around her, members of the congregation were rising, some heading for the door, some shouting in anger at Ronnie’s betrayal. Sonny Absher grabbe
d Ronnie’s sleeve, but Ronnie pulled free and scrambled to the floor.

  “Come on, Timmy,” Ronnie screeched, tugging on Tim’s right arm.

  No. He can’t get away.

  She grabbed Tim’s left arm and held on with all the strength borne of desperate love. A mother’s love.

  For a brief moment, Tim was caught in the middle of the tug-of-war, and Archer reached over, talons extended, to take the boy. But then Tim was gone, stolen by the meddling Ronnie.

  The boys scurried underneath the pew as Linda’s anger rose to match Archer’s. She wouldn’t let Ronnie rob her of this chance to win Archer’s favor. She’d wanted the reverend for so long. Not just in the lustful flesh, though that would be fine with her, but she wanted to join in spirit.

  And now Ronnie was depriving her of the gift that would buy Archer’s undying love.

  Her oldest son had always been a troublemaker, now that she thought about it. Always reading books and getting ideas and asking dumb questions when there was really only one question. And the answer to that question was Archer.

  She added her voice to the clamor and vaulted over the front pew, where the boys had gone. She lost her balance and slammed against Mama Bet, and the old woman fell heavily to the floor. Mama Bet moaned in pain, but Linda ignored her. Mama Bet may have given birth to Archer, but she was just another vessel, just another piece of meat used by God to bring Archer to Linda. Mama Bet mattered no more than rain mattered to a river.

  Ronnie pulled Tim to the dais and helped him over the railing. Linda followed. Where was Archer? Didn’t he see that Tim, the youngest descendant of all the old families, was getting away? Didn’t he care? Didn’t he want to accept the sacrifice as badly as she wanted to offer it?

  Wasn’t sacrifice the currency of God?

  She crossed the railing and looked down at the shape on the old boards. Wings, claws outstretched, a terrible angel of dark blood.

  Back again.

  The work that Wendell McFall had begun was now nearly complete. Only one more sinner’s blood needed to be spilled to flesh it out and bring the Bell Monster’s spirit from shadow to fully formed life.

  Only one more cleansing.

  She yelled at the boys to stop, but they didn’t even look back. They ran into the vestry and the door slammed shut. Linda clenched her fists until her knuckles ached, then turned to look back at the congregation.

  The Buchanans had spilled out the front door, their spell broken. Sonny and Becca Faye were edging toward the side of the church, away from Mama Bet, who had risen to her knees and lifted her arms.

  “Look what you done to me now,” Mama Bet yelled to the ceiling. She paused to lick at the offal in the corners of her mouth, then said, “You ain’t made me suffer enough, now you got to go and mess up my Sunday-go-to-meeting dress. I can’t wait to get my hands on you.”

  Linda glanced across the rapidly thinning crowd. Where was Archer?

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Sonny yelled to Becca Faye. “This bunch is crazier than a bug in a bottle.”

  Mama Bet chanted again, a toothless prayer: “I can’t wait to get face-to-face with you, mister. Then, by God, there’ll be hell to pay. Cause you owe me big.”

  Oh, them of little faith, Linda thought, but Archer would deal with them later. After tonight’s sacrifice, Archer would have all the time and power and anger in the world.

  She shivered with rapture and went to the vestry to fetch her boys.

  “Holy hell and D-double-damned,” David muttered.

  The bell’s clangor rolled across the hilltops, slapping the mountain slopes and reverberating back in a trapped tide. The vibrations wriggled against David’s skin, a thousand live things.

  “There’s no rope,” Sheila said to herself.

  She was starting to get on David’s nerves. Damned woman ought not be a cop, anyway. Women were too sensitive, too caring. Too easily fooled. And that thing she’d said about sacrifice being the currency of God, why, she’d said it exactly the way Linda did.

  Kind of worshipy and dreamy, in-love, like.

  But she was the sheriff’s problem, not his.

  Because his problem was What in hell do I do about that shadow-shape thing coming out of the steeple?

  But maybe that was everybody’s problem, because the thing swooping down was full of sharp edges.

  The shadow swerved and skimmed across the roof of the church, then tangled in the branches of the old dogwood. David glanced away to look inside the church. The congregation was scattering and shouting, and for a brief instant David saw Ronnie and Tim scrambling toward the front of the church.

  And behind them, Linda.

  He saw Ronnie lead Tim into the vestry.

  “Get Archer,” David shouted at the sheriff, who stood as stiffly as any of the stone angels around them, the rifle like a weight in his hands.

  Sheila said, “It’s not Archer’s fault. He’s just doing God’s work.”

  “What in hell?” David shouted at her, and now the church door had slammed open and people were spilling out onto the cool dewy grass.

  Sheila had turned. Archer had gotten to her somehow. Softened her up. Fed her the big lie and shut the door to her heart away from the saving grace of Jesus.

  But the sheriff . . . well, the sheriff would take care of business.

  Except he was from one of the old families.

  Same as Linda, same as Mama Bet, same as Donna and Zeb and Boonie.

  Same as them that was running away from the church like rabbits from a brushfire.

  And David had seen Sheriff Littlefield at last night’s service.

  Chowing down with the rest of them.

  Eating what Archer offered.

  Damn.

  Was everybody on the side of Satan?

  And David had given him a rifle.

  About the smartest thing you ever done, Mr. David Day. Now you’d best forget about him, forget about all of them. Save the only things that matter.

  Save the boys.

  And to hell with the rest.

  He raced across the graveyard to the rear of the church, keeping one eye on the dark branches of the dogwood and the other on the sheriff.

  Frank watched David disappear into the shadows behind the church.

  The congregation, Frank’s constituents, the people who had once been his neighbors, scattered across the graveyard, some getting into their cars. Others disappeared into the trees. Haywood and Nell Absher crouched behind a large marker near the sheriff and Sheila.

  “You’ve got to kill him,” Sheila said.

  “Haywood?”

  “No, Archer.”

  “I . . . I don’t know if I can.”

  “That’s the way it has to be done. For God so loved the world, He gave His only other begotten son. Kill Archer, and set Samuel free. Set all the sinners free.”

  Frank shook his head. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. His wet clothes gave off a mist in the moonlight.

  “You got to, Frankie,” came a muffled, hollow voice from the ground, the sky, nowhere. Samuel’s voice.

  Frank gripped the rifle, stood and strode toward the church. Stepford Matheson ran toward him, saw the rifle and froze, then fled in the opposite direction. The night was filled with the gargle of car ignitions and excited shouts. Twin beams swept over Frank as the Buchanans’ pickup turned around. Frank didn’t even blink as the headlights pierced his eyes and the truck growled its way to the main road.

  He came to the foot of the old dogwood and stared up into its black branches, to the scattered white blossoms at its top.

  Where is that damned brother-killing shadow?

  But he knew that the shadow wasn’t the real monster. The real monster was the one who cast the shadow.

  The Reverend Archer McFall.

  Frank climbed the steps and entered the church foyer. He heard Sheila behind him. She would want to see. She was part of it now. Though she wasn’t of the old families, she
had been touched and changed by Archer.

  In Archer, they were all one big happy family.

  Frank entered the dimly lit sanctuary. Some of the candles had blown out because of the open door, and it took Frank’s eyes a moment to adjust. Someone moaned near the front of the church. Another person—it looked like Linda Day—stood to one side of the altar, her back to him.

  “You got to do it, Frankie,” said Samuel.

  He spun, and Sheila smiled at him. “Sacrifice is the currency of God,” she said in Samuel’s voice.

  “What the hell are you?” Frank said, the muscles in his neck rigid.

  Sheila batted her eyelashes. She spoke in her own voice this time. “Just a woman, Frank. Just somebody else for you to love and lose. Just another piece of God’s great puzzle.”

  Her face twisted, dissolved, shifted into Archer’s.

  “Just somebody else for me to take away from you,” Archer said.

  Frank swung the butt of the rifle at Archer’s smirk, wanting to drive the bright, secretive glee from the monster’s eyes. Just before the wood struck flesh, the face shifted back into Sheila’s.

  Her eyes widened in surprise and anticipated pain.

  Dark.

  So black that Ronnie couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

  He was in a box, a coffin, with nothing but the hard thud of his heart to mark the passing of time.

  “I’m scared,” Tim whispered.

  “Shh,” Ronnie said. “They’ll hear us.”

  Though they already knew the two of them were locked in the vestry. It wasn’t as though there were a whole lot of places to hide inside the red church.

  Ronnie finally opened his eyes. The weak gleam of moon fought through a small window set high in the back wall. He could barely make out Tim’s pale face, though his eyes and mouth were steeped in shadows. He pressed his ear to the door again.

  She was out there.

  Waiting.

  Wanting.

  Ronnie shivered, remembering the deep and creepy look in his mother’s eyes as she ate the raw meat, as she passed the plate to Tim, as she screamed at them for running away from Archer McFall.