The Chapel

by S. T. Boston

  The day she’d played witness to the horrors the Minister came to her room, and as always, he'd knocked three times. Lindie never invited him in, but he always entered, nonetheless. Fearing she was going to be the subject of another hellish night at the hands of the bad men she drew her legs up to her chest, tight against her swelling tummy and hugged herself, wishing she could shrink into the walls themselves to escape the horror.

  'Come, child,' the Minister had said, in his soft, almost gentle patter as he entered the room. He always spoke that way, softly and with the tone of a kind man. However, he was anything but kind, he was evil, and that night in the epileptic flickering lights of the Ceremony Room’s many oil lamps she’d caught her first real glimpse of the monster he really was. 'You have nothing to fear, for today you will learn of your purpose here at The Chapel. You are truly blessed, child!' he’d encouraged, smiling as he stalked slowly through her cell, his long dark velvet robe flowing behind him like that of a monk. His silver, grey hair was slicked neatly back on his head and his fierce blue eyes seemed to burn into her soul.

  The false smile still dressing his smooth lips the Minister had taken Lindie by the hand and lead her to the Ceremony Room. She didn’t fight it, like the coming of the night, it was inevitable, and besides she didn’t want another bloodied nose.

  There she had been handed over to the eager congregation, all of them wore faceless masks of porcelain. The participants then bound her to a high-backed chair, using a rope that felt soft against her skin, yet hurt from how securely it held her. Next, a woman, only recognisable as such as the female robes differed slightly to that of the male version by how they dropped lower at the bust, grabbed her head and held it firmly in place, while another strapped it to the back of the chair with a leather strap, fixing her gaze at the twin altars at the centre of the room, one of which had played host to her many a time.

  Transfixed she watched in horror as within this pit of serpents the last of her innocents and spirit ebbed away, for here, in the Bad Place, there was no hope, this was where evil and darkness dwelt.

  Behind the Minister, who clutched a bundle of something in his hands as he approached the altar, and the one they called the High Priestess who chanted spells of both Latin and English in a flat monotone voice, walked a girl with the most strikingly beautiful long blonde hair that’s she’d ever seen. She was around Lindie’s age, eighteen at most. It was hard to tell, her face was streaked with tears, her hauntingly beautiful grey eyes were red and puffy. She wore what looked like a white nightie, it appeared to be made of silk and dropped to her ankles where the intricate lace of the hemline was dirtied and torn as if she’d been outside.

  As they led her toward the altar, she’d watched mesmerised as the girl’s gown flowed and shimmered in the dancing light of the lamps. It was the first time that Lindie grasped the terrible knowledge that she was not the only prisoner at the Bad Place. When she thought about it, there had been nights, many cold and lonely nights in her hell-cell when she’d thought she’d heard distant sobbing, but she’d discounted it as if the sound were that of her own desperation reverberating through her mind. Now she knew she’d been wrong.

  Transfixed by how the girl’s pretty hair glistened in the light, Lindie had taken a few seconds to register exactly what it was that the Minister held in his hands. With abhorrence, she’d eventually caught the sight of the baby’s angelic looking face as it wriggled and writhed in its robes, and then through the High Priestess’ chanting, she’d heard it grizzle. Not wanting to watch, but at the same time for some morbid reason not being able to close her eyes, Lindie looked on as mother and child were laid down next to each other, the mother on one altar and the child on the other.

  Distraught, the blonde girl had reached fruitlessly for her infant, only to have the Minister grab her wrists and bind them to the iron manacles set deeply into the altar’s stone. The child, who Lindie had now seen to be a baby boy, was laid on a velvety looking black sheet, naked and squirming around, his chubby little legs bicycling the air above his tiny body.

  The congregation, who had been silent, but held a palpable feeling of excitement now joined in with the chanting of the High Priestess, as if the particular spell of horror she was on was a party favourite that needed singing along to. Eyes wide, Lindie watched the Minister raise a jewel-encrusted golden dagger high above the squirming child, that now as if it could sense the imminent danger began to squawk uncontrollably. The girl, thankfully unable to see the horrific events unfolding next to her, due to her head being held in place much like Lindie’s, just in a horizontal position, begged for them to stop. As the dagger reached the highest point in its arc, and the chanting reached fever pitch, Lindie saw something that at first, she thought had to be a trick of the flickering candlelight. The Minister’s face seemed to change, his features moulded into one flesh coloured mound that flickered between obscurity and human, like the way the picture would sometimes roll on the old TV set in Lindie’s lounge when the signal was bad. Before she could get a clear look at the illusion through her tear-filled eyes his face was normal again, and it left her wondering if her tortured mind had imagined the horrific image.

  As the Minister swung the dagger down Lindie closed her eyes, but her ears served her unfaithfully, allowing her to hear the shrill pain-filled cry of the infant as the golden blade tore into its flesh. As the child’s cries were mercifully and finally silenced by the dagger’s blade, Lindie’s head was filled with the cries of the girl, who although unable to watch was only too aware that her baby son had been slain next to her, and now lay as lifeless as the cold stone upon which his tiny body rested.

  During the times Lindie had been on that altar, with the bad men doing things to her that a girl of her age and upbringing had no business being a part of, Lindie’s mind had learned to shut itself down. At the times when the pain was at its worst, and the men were at their most frantic, using her body until the pain and violation were too much, her mind would allow her the comfort of unconsciousness. It was as if it had developed its own safe mode. There, in the congregation, and being made to watch the evil show her brain decided she’d seen enough and turned the horror off.

  Later, day or night Lindie did not know, such things as day and night held no meaning when your world consisted of a windowless room, she awoke on the grubby mattress in her cell, as she had done when she’d first been taken. For hours Lindie had lain there sobbing, her mind filled with the terrible sound of the baby’s anguished cries as it had met the eager, glinting golden blade, and the uncontrollable sorrow filled wails of the pretty blonde girl with the haunting grey eyes. From that day Lindie’s fear reached a whole new level, for she now knew of her purpose, and the purpose the unborn child inside her was destined to serve. She never learned what had become of that girl and her hypnotic grey eyes. She hoped, in a kind way, that she’d died, too. A blissful release from this world of pain and nightmare. In a way, by wishing the girl dead, Lindie knew she wished the same fate upon herself. Death was not something a teenage girl often contemplated, well not those of sound mind and happy home, but things had changed, and – yes, if it meant an end to the horror, if it meant sweet and eternal peace then she wished herself there, she didn’t even fear it, she only feared the pain that would precede the oblivion.

  Gradually, week by week and month by month, Lindie’s tummy had grown ever more outwards. From her small, bleak prison she shut herself away in her own mind, thinking of her mother and father and of her sister, of sitting on the harbour at Charlestown with her grandfather, scoffing his toffies and waiting for the fishing boats, and of her grandmother’s apple and cinnamon pie. Sometimes she went so deep into her mind that she thought she could actually taste it. At times she felt guilt, guilt for the torture that her parents must be feeling. Sometimes that guilt would build to panic, panic so strong that Lindie felt as if she could almost claw her way through the walls of her room and escape. It consumed her, swelled and filled her up entirely u
ntil it felt as if there were a rabid animal gnawing at her insides. At times like that, she wanted to scream, but the sound of her own screams in that silent, lonely room just terrified her even more, so, for the most part, she kept them in her head.

  Sat on the forest floor, her child cradled in her arms, that same gnawing feeling of panic began to build in the pit of her tummy again, she had the overwhelming feeling that she needed to move, even though her jelly-like legs thought otherwise. Securing the swaddling blanket around her infant daughter, whom Lindie had decided would be named Hope if they both lived through the night, she steadied herself to her feet using the fallen log for support and continued her plight for freedom.

  Lindie wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d last heard their pursuing feet giving chase, and she had no idea why they’d seemingly stopped following her. Wincing as her own foot found a fallen piece of thistle, Lindie picked up the pace, the pain quelled by her longing for freedom. Hope began to grizzle louder as if she were working against her mother’s attempts to be as quiet as possible.

  Shushing her baby, and praying the crying would stop, Lindie tried to navigate through the forest using what little dawn light there was. Surely soon the forest would end, and she’d break out of the woods and see a farm, a cottage, or anywhere that she could find refuge. Spurred on by the thought, and with more hope for survival and escape than she’d known since her taking, Lindie willed her fatigued legs to carry her a little further. She felt increasingly sure that now she would see her mother and her father again, she would get to taste that amazing apple and cinnamon pie cooked by her gran, and that baby Hope would get to grow knowing the warm love of her family.

  Momentarily Lindie halted again and listened, there was an impossible sound that carried itself on the light breeze as it trickled its way through the trees and jostled her freshly washed red hair. Hair, that like the blonde girl’s had been prepared for the main event. The sound wasn’t feet or the vocal cacophony of the pursuing mob, but a single voice. His voice. Not sure if her ears had fooled her, Lindie cocked her head to one side and held her breath. The breeze chased its way through the forest once again and played with the laced hemline of her white, silk gown, and with the breeze came the voice.

  “Lindieeeeeeeee,” it coaxed. It was the Minister, his voice soft and unmistakable, yet at the same time mocking. “Where are you Lindieee-Lou?” He’d often called her Lindie-Lou when trying to coax her from her cell, she hated it. Spinning on the spot Lindie looked around frantically, expecting to see him appear from behind one of the large oak trees in his ceremony robes, his face festooned with the dark velvet of his tunic hood. But he didn’t. The breeze, that was now more of a light wind, disturbed the treetops, igniting the leaves with the sound of a thousand whispers that seemed to call her name, “Lindieeeeeee.”

  Sobbing, Lindie willed her fear frozen body to move, faster now, more urgently. She felt as if every tree were watching her, working as an ally to the Minister. She felt toyed with, the way a cat might allow a mouse to think it had escaped before its paw cruelly pulled it back by the tail for more evil games.

  “Lindieeeee,” the Minister’s voice mocked again, the leaves a conduit for his words. As if sensing her mother’s terror, Hope began to grizzle louder, building into a full-on crying fit. Lindie could no longer feel the pain in her legs and in her feet, fresh fear-fuelled adrenaline had taken those minor distractions away from her. Then, in this emotional game of terror and hope, Lindie saw lights, lights from whatever building lay ahead in the clearing. Encouraged on that this nightmare was over and the voices had been nothing but a product of the terror that saturated her brain, and that she’d finally escaped the Bad Place, she broke into a run. Baby Hope squawked loudly in protest as she cradled her tightly into her chest. The thick woods began to ebb away. As she neared the building, tears of joy now streaming down her face, Lindie broke clear of the forest and dropped to her knees on the neatly trimmed grass.

  “No, no, nooooo,” she wailed as her infant daughter picked up her own frantic cries to a new octave. Through her tear-filled eyes, Lindie saw them all stood there. The Minister, the High Priestess, and all the others, their faces hidden behind those blank, expressionless masks of porcelain. Behind them, lights burning through its windows, the same lights that had been Lindie’s false beacon of hope, was the Bad Place.

  “You came back to us Lindie Lou,” the Minister smiled, stepping forward. As he spoke the dawn light seemed to vanish from the sky, it grew darker, as if the encroaching sun had itself decided that light had no business here and that the night could have it back. “It’s a sign, Lindie,” he continued. She turned her face toward that darkened sky, a sky that held no stars, no moon, and no hope, just the abyssal blackness of infinity. “If he didn’t want you, he’d let you go. Don’t you see that, child?” Lindie felt his hands lifting her, she didn’t resist, she was spent. “It’s time to fulfil your destiny, Lindie, and become.”

  “Become,” the faceless crowd chanted behind.

  Lindie felt Hope being taken from her arms, the child screamed louder as the physical bond with its mother was broken. Her head swam in confusion, she’d ran in a straight line, never turning more than a little here and there to navigate the trees. It had been a fairly clear night, and through the trees, Lindie had made sure the bright, full moon had stayed behind her the whole time. There was no possible way she could have gone full circle.

  “You didn’t actually think we let you go?” the Minister said as if sensing the burning question in her mind. He walked alongside her now, cradling Hope in his arms as the High Priestess escorted her by the arm. Lindie could no longer feel her legs, like her feet they just felt dead, dead flesh that now carried her toward new horrors. “It’s the ultimate test, Lindie,” he continued, not waiting for her answer. “We let you escape, you see, if he didn’t want you to become, he would have let you go. But he didn’t!” Lindie looked up at his smooth face, his icy blue eyes danced with excitement. “He brought you back to us, Lindie Lou, he brought you back so you could become.” And with that, they took her to the ceremony room. The room lit by the light of many oil lamps, which hung between gigantic tapestries adorned with symbols that meant nothing to her. “Tonight, child, you will be blessed.” He raised his hand and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Lindie felt his cold touch on her hot skin and she wanted to retch.

  “Please, d-don’t, k-kill h-her,” Lindie sobbed as she felt her spent body being lifted onto the altar. She had no fight left in her, the weeks and months of mental and physical abuse had taken their toll, and with tonight’s cruel and false hope of freedom she could endure no more, she just wanted it to end.

  “Soon you will see,” the Minister said, smiling down at her as eager hands fixed her arms and legs into the manacles that had played host to her many times. “Through your child, through your offering, you will become.”

  Somewhere in the room, Lindie could hear the High Priestess chanting one of her spells, the Latin lost on her as it always was.

  Hope cried, her squawks and wails more torturous to her than any pain they could bestow upon her.

  Once again Lindie thought of the blonde girl and prayed that her suffering had ended, that she was now at peace, a peace she knew she would soon see if only she could get through the pain fist, and oh how she feared the pain. But it was a necessary road, one that must be travelled for this to all end.

  Suddenly the chanting stopped, and the Minister took over.

  “The mother offers you this child so that she might become” he proclaimed.

  “Esset facti,” the others chanted.

  “I don’t o-offer y-you anything, please j-just l-l-let us g-go” Lindie sobbed, her voice weak, her head strapped to the altar, and her wide eyes fixed intently on the high arcing roof of the Bad Place.

  “We offer you this child so that you may feast on its pure soul, and so that the mother might become,” he continued, ignoring Lindie’s plea.

&nb
sp; “Esset facti,” the congregation chanted in agreement.

  “We offer you her body, so that you might live through her, and that she might become,” he cried, his voice feverish with excitement.

  “Esset facti,” came the voice of the congregation, just as those at a Christian ceremony might say Amen.

  Lindie could hear her baby screaming next to her. From the ceremony she’d been forced to watch she knew Hope was naked, laid on a thick, dark velvet sheet placed on the cold stone, and that soon her daughter would meet the jewel-encrusted dagger. She tried to turn her head, tried to get one last look at her baby before the monsters took her away, but she could do nothing but stare through sore eyes at that high arcing beams that held the roof. Above her, among those old wooden beams, where the candlelight gave birth to dark shadows, she felt sure she saw them move, stir, as if alive. The shadows were excited.

  The sound of the High Priestess’ voice filled the room again. Lindie wondered if another innocent, as she had been, was in the congregation, being made to watch. The next victim. As the voices of the faceless ones reached new heights, she knew it was time. Lindie closed her eyes and felt the fresh tears as they rushed down her hot cheeks, tracing cooling lines on her flesh. In her head, she tried to shut herself away, mentally listening to her favourite Beatles song, Love Me Do, but through the lyrics that played in her head, she heard the pain-filled cry of her daughter as she met the dagger. Lindie prayed for unconsciousness, for her safety mechanism but it never came. Hope was quiet. Hope was gone.

  “We thank you Lord of Chaos for the child, the child that we have given to you, the child that we have cast into the Abyss,” came the voice of the Minister. “Now the mother will drink of its blood so that she might become, and so that the darkness of the Abyss might dwell inside her.”

  “Habitant in medio,” came the chant.

  Lindie felt her mouth being forced open, she tried to fight it, but forceful fingers pinched her nose. In the end, her lungs burned for air and she gasped. As she did, as the much-needed oxygen flooded her chest, she felt warm metallic liquid fill her mouth almost choking her, as she tried not to retch the room erupted in a frenzied cry of jubilation. Opening her eyes Lindie saw the Minister stood over her, his face fixed in a satisfied smile. Gagging on the taste of the warm viscous liquid she watched as he lifted a golden chalice and drank deeply from it himself. As the vessel left his lips, she saw they were painted deep crimson. Not wiping his mouth, the Minister placed it down and collected something from the altar that was out of Lindie’s field of view. She soon saw what it was, the golden dagger. The glinting blade still dripping with Hope’s blood was lifted high above her head. Watching through wide, frightened eyes Lindie saw his face change, as it had the day she’d played witness to the ceremony of the blonde girl with the pretty grey eyes. It softened and moulded, rolled between monstrous to blank and anonymous like the masks they wore, then back as if it didn’t know which form to take.