The strength required to drive the blade into the heart.
The positioning of the point upon the jugular to draw forth the blood for drinking.
Guiding said blood into the chalice.
And on and on, her thoughts spun, but she never, not once, felt a lack of confidence. Yesterday it would have been a different story, but (and she could barely believe it), the Elders were right. Rumination changed you. It really worked. It connected her with the Lord Father and generation upon generation of her people in a way that she could have never imagined.
All her life Melanie said the prayers and followed the rules, but she had always thought that everybody around her was faking their way through rituals, the years having brainwashed them into compliant sheep. But now, on the verge of becoming a full-fledged priestess, she understood. They were connected. This was no bullshit. And she believed stronger than she ever had in her entire life.
It was an incredible feeling to trade tentative faith for resolute belief.
* * *
The mouth of the Blood Chamber yawned blood-red and shadowy at the end of the hallway. The effect was achieved using candlelight and filters and it did an excellent job of setting the scene. The sixteen other times Melanie had marched with the congregation into the Blood Chamber (well the past few anyway) she had been keenly aware of theatrics. Her teenage mind found it all a bit cheesy. The chanting, the dark robes, the dramatic lighting, she was unimpressed with the man-behind-the-curtain spectacle and was beginning to think her church, like everybody else’s church was a joke.
Not anymore of course. Rumination destroyed all doubt. The hokey drama took on new gravity. It felt as powerful as it did when she was eight or nine or ten, saucer-eyed and enrapt.
Brother Pickett, a new respect in her heart for him (he, like everybody else her senior had gone through Rumination), halted their approach. They stopped about twenty feet from the entrance. The Creation chant issued forth, the entire congregation humming the dirge, vibrating the walls with reverence. “This is where I take my leave of you Sister Melanie. There might be a slight delay. We’re waiting on the Diviner.”
Melanie nodded.
“Not that you need to worry about any of that. You remember your cue?”
She nodded.
“You okay? Rumination is rough for some.”
She nodded again.
The walkie-talkie buried somewhere within Pickett’s robe squawked to life. Pickett dug it out and the static laced voice from the tiny speaker called “It’s a go.” Pickett raised the box to his face and responded, “10-4.”
“Okay then Miss. Next time we meet you’ll be Sister Collins.” He bowed before her, pulled his hood over his head and then turned to leave.
“Brother Pickett?” She called after him.
“Yes Miss?” He answered.
Melanie smiled. “Thank you.”
“Miss?”
“For the guidance and all.”
“My pleasure, Sister. I am my Lord Father’s Sentinel and I take my duty very seriously. After Rumination, I’m sure you can understand.”
She nodded and he was off to join the others.
For the first time in her life she didn’t find Brother Pickett creepy or annoying. They were the same, joined at the heart, at the soul. As she was with the rest of the congregation. The Creation chant filled her eyes with tears, its bass-heavy intonation stirring her soul unlike it ever had before. When she was a kid it sounded very serious, like everybody around her was warning all of the children to be quiet and pay attention. The past few years her teenage cynicism got the best of her and she found it hard to stop smirking at the rise and fall of the dump-de-dump-de-dump-dump rhythm. It was hard to believe a bunch of adults, professionals mostly, doctors and lawyers and powerful business owners, were wearing black hooded robes and singing orchestral hymns. The Creation chant sounded a little like the theme to Star Wars and Melanie found this amusing to no end. But now it was different. The chant sounded right and it felt good, like it beat in time with her blood flow.
There was no question the Rumination Chamber had changed her. It altered perceptions, but did it somehow alter physiology? Was her vision more than a vision? Was her body really taken apart, immersed in the black cloud and then reassembled upon the reinsertion of her being?
It was impossible, but then again so was a fifty-three-year-old dog. She’d find the answers soon enough. For now, Rumination helped her to understand why the adults of her church did what they did. It was good to discover that their faith was hinged upon something substantial rather than hearsay and the inexplicable magic that kept Louie alive and barking (as silly as the dog was, his vitality was testament to the power of their church and kept her from completely rebelling—as she was sure it did for any other questioning teens in the congregation).
The Creation chant reached its final stanza.
Melanie tucked her hair into the neck of her robe and pulled her hood over her head. She held her hands palm to palm in prayer and then began counting her steps.
Thirteen steps. Brother Pickett stood by the entrance and as she passed he put the sacrificial dagger in her left hand. Its leathery, knobby handle sent electric tingles up and down her arm. Her heart murmured. The dagger was as old as time itself (or so it was said). It had been used every year at every Blood Sacrifice for as long as any living member of their sect could remember.
Thirteen more steps.
In her hands the hilt, the nine-inch blade gleaming, seemed to throb in time with her quickening pulse.
10. THE PIN
Adele floated in the doorway.
Still.
In the exact same spot.
Her dark eyes fixated on him (as far as Arthur could tell)—unsettling, endless tunnels extending into the infinite void—and her blue lips formed an icy, expressionless line. No naked fantasy here, just a dead dour look on her face and her stuffy Victorian dress playing up the sorrow, what with its high, ruffled collar and drab, confining coverage.
In her right hand the deathly razor went round and round, catching glints of anti-light, mock shining, a menace, awaiting a victim. She would attack soon. When? What time was it?
Arthur tuned her out and kept his eyes down. Nausea rose in his throat.
There was nobody else in the room. He was slouched in the same chair in the same small, stone chamber. While he felt groggy, and nervous with Adele so close, he was surprisingly refreshed. Keeping his eyes off the freaky specter (he much preferred her naked) he sat up and tried to make sense of where he was.
The room, still.
The chair, still.
Adele, still.
That did it. Not much more to figure through.
What now?
Okay, there was a ton to figure through—like where in the hell was he, and who in the hell were these people and where in the hell had they put Connor and Melanie? Each and every one a pressing question to be sure, but his brain pushed it all down. One thing at a time, it warned. It was still reeling from smoke inhalation and foot damage and, well, everything, and it could only process so much.
Arthur took it slow.
Whatever the doctor had given him he wanted more. It knocked him out quick and clean, offering up a fast exit from the rising nausea in his throat and the ghostly terrors in his brain. It was powerful, powerful stuff. If only he had a three day dose to whisk him away.
He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed, but while he drifted through oblivion someone had dressed his foot in a tight ball of gauze. The air smelled antiseptic, like a hospital. His clothes were gone, replaced with a black, hooded robe just like the one the guy who brought him a glass of water was wearing. They cleaned the rest of him up too. His hands smelled like soap and the sour sweat that comingled with soot and blood and grime had been wiped away.
Before he went under he remembered talking with an old guy, but their conversation hung fuzzy in his brain. He could picture sitting across from him, answering qu
estions, but the actual words were lost. Was he police? Social services? What had Arthur told him? It seemed like the old man and the doctor were on his side, but so it seemed with all adults. If experience had taught him anything it was that ninety-nine percent of adults couldn’t be trusted.
For some reason Arthur thought the old guy could actually see Adele. Which was impossible—it was probably just wishful thinking fucking with his brain while it shut down. Regardless he had a strong picture of the man staring at Adele and nodding in recognition. Weird.
As much as he wanted to slip from the chair (it hurt his back something awful), curl up on the floor and try to go back to sleep, Arthur figured his best course of action was to get as far away from civilization as possible. He had to get enough water and food and disappear into the desert for the next three days. He had never denied the ghosts their victims and he wasn’t sure what would happen in the middle of nowhere, but he was sixteen now and he couldn’t just ignore this shit. Maybe they would turn on him. Maybe they’d tear him to pieces. Which freaked him out to no end. Which ruled his world. Which made him want to crawl under the covers and just let them do their thing to whoever happened to be unlucky enough to be in the vicinity. It was this fear that kept him at bay all of these years. It kept him running and hiding and figuring ways in which to distance himself from blame. No more. He had to own it.
Something happened back at Cottonwood. Something in his brain cracked and seeped into his heart. Resolve took root. Watching Connor freak out, watching Leon burn, he saw what he was. When Connor took off, Arthur was tempted to let the smoke and flames have him. But he chickened out and ran for the window. Poised upon the window ledge he hoped the fall would break his neck. Chickening out again he angled his fall and hit the ground feet first (which hurt like nothing before or after). By the time he got to the Range Rover the death wish subsided. He was too angry and his foot screamed and his head swam and he wanted to kill Connor for his stupidity.
He didn’t really want to die (drama); he just didn’t want to be who he was. Connor’s freak out was a wakeup call. This was his chance to come correct and deal with the problem head on rather than pretending it didn’t exist (thanks Connor).
Arthur tried to stand, determination buzzing in his chest, but his head spun a little (a lot) and forced him to give up. He slumped back into the chair and took a breath. A few more minutes and he’d try again. He rolled his head from side to side and caught a glimpse of Adele’s dangling feet.
Don’t look.
Don’t look.
But resolve doubled and kicked him and shouted, “Taking care of a problem requires acknowledging it and staring it in its murderous face!”
Damn resolve.
Adele rolled and waved with static disruption. It was easier for Arthur to think of her as a hologram. Like Princess Leia in Star Wars. Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope. He took another deep breath. It was hard to believe she was floating a mere four feet away, as clear as day, real. Well, not real, ghostly, but there, clear. He spent the better part of the past three years (and the three years before and before and before) trying to figure if he was insane or if his ghosts were real. Well here she was, real (not real), but it didn’t do much for his psyche. He still felt insane. And when this was over, and all he had were half memories, he was sure he was bound to fall into that same vague, am-I-insane? rut.
The ghosts did something to erase or cloud his brain. He was certain of it. The last encounter was only three years ago and at thirteen he was pretty sharp. He could understand forgetting from ten on down when he was a stupid kid. He could barely remember most things from when he was four or seven or ten. But thirteen? He remembered everything and he should have been able to remember the last go round. He could remember the movies he saw or the TV shows he liked or his favorite pair of shoes. He could remember his old group home and the staff and their rules. Why couldn’t he remember specific details about something as dynamic as a trio of homicidal ghosts?
It was clear now, it all came rushing back as if he never forgot and buried memory reminded that every three years this was how it was. This is how it was. The ghosts always lingered about, Adele first, then twenty-four hours later (give or take) Giuseppe, then after another day, Fred, each wavering before him like heat, until their time came and they hovered off to strike down some unlucky fool.
After they had gone and his wounds closed up and the guilt broke over him like a fine sheen of sweat that never dried, he could remember little, broken, nothing bits—what they looked like, the particulars of the murder victims he accidentally stumbled upon—but all the important stuff in between was as cloudy as could be.
They altered his physiology, pumping his brain with some kind of ecto-amnesiac upon their departure. Arthur was sure that if he didn’t take action, within three days time he was going to be lost and confused and asking himself “Is this real?” all over again. Resolve. Resolve. He had to start writing stuff down. He had to get as much info as he could.
The ghosts never spoke, but he tried anyway. He looked Adele in her eyeholes and asked, “What do you want?”
Nothing. She simply hung there with her dead stare. The black eyes glared black, the blue line held, the razor ever-twirled.
Arthur tried again. “Why?” It was a vague question, a desperate plea, more to himself than to the mute ghost.
Still nothing.
“Of course.” He sighed and muttered to no one.
“Of course, of course, of course.” Despondence broke his voice into a shrilly, whiny thing. Arthur pulled up the sleeves of the robe and held his flayed forearms out. “What do you want from me? Is this what you want?”
He dug a finger in the pseudo holes near his temples. “This?”
He put both his hands to his throat like he was choking himself. “This?”
Adele merely flickered.
The drama got the best of him and tears began to well. He sobbed, “What do you want? Who are you?”
Mid-question the door swung inward and the old man stepped into the room. He was wearing a white robe with a string of strange embroidery, symbols, markings, running up and down the left and right breast.
* * *
Arthur wiped at his face. A rush of embarrassment obliterated self-sorrow. He didn’t like people to see him crying.
The old guy, The Diviner, that’s what they called him, “The Diviner,” seemed to skirt around Adele before taking his seat in the chair opposite Arthur. “So how are we feeling?” he asked.
Arthur shrugged and kept his tear-stained face down. The Diviner. It sounded like something out of a fantasy novel.
“Are you in much pain?” The old guy’s voice was agreeable, his eyebrows rising and falling with genuine concern, and he was as nice as he was earlier, but the robe had a sobering effect that made him seem…shady. Religious. Cultish. Arthur preferred the polo shirt and slacks. They made him look grandfatherly and pleasant.
“I see the doc did a nice job on your foot.” He stared down at the bandage work for a moment and then looked back to Arthur’s downturned face. “You never did tell me what happened.”
Arthur shrugged again.
“Okay. I get it. Let’s stop pussyfooting around.”
The term was funny—pussyfooting—and Arthur couldn’t help but to smirk.
“We’ve got a problem here Mr. Sand—Mr. Smith. These guys,” the old man gestured behind Arthur and then at Adele behind him, “are trouble, are they not?”
Arthur looked the man in the face.
He could see them?
“You can—” the words stumbled out, the sentence cut short by shock and excitement. Arthur started again, “You can—”
This time the old guy cut in, “Yes, Mr. Smith, I can see them. I can tell you a little about them too, but first I need to hear what you know.”
Who was this guy? Where was this place? Arthur’s mind jumped from thought to thought as the magnitude of the situation bore down upon him. If this
old guy could see the ghosts it meant that Arthur wasn’t crazy. It meant…Could there be a cure?
“I-I-I…” Words weren’t coming. It was a lot to take in. He managed, “Who?”
“My name is Edwin Parks. I can see things most people can’t. I might be able to help you, but I need to know all angles first.”
“I gotta go! Far away, before it’s too late!” A flurry of shouts escaped, more impulse than logic, more animal than man. If the old guy, Parks, understood he might be able to help Arthur get away. He could drop him in the desert and then come back for him when it was over.
Parks reached over and put a calming hand on Arthur’s shoulder. His eyes alighted upon the pseudo neck wound. “Does it hurt?”
“You can see these too?” Arthur raised his forearms.
Parks nodded.
That did it. Arthur broke the stuttering trill and found his voice. He told Parks everything he could about the ghosts. He told their names and described their forms. He detailed their associative emotions and their corresponding pseudo-wounds. He told the old man about his parent’s death and the murders and the mysterious three year cycle. He went on and on until he was blue in the face and out of breath. It felt good to get it all out and put his nightmare into words. Finally, the truth. Finally, an ear to listen. That good feeling warmed his chest for about thirty seconds before it cooled and paranoia crept in.
What if this guy was a cop?
What if Arthur just gave him a full confession?
What the fuck was he thinking pouring his heart out like that?
And it didn’t matter. More tears began to flow. And it still didn’t matter. He was fucked up and deserved jail or the loony bin. Resolve. He wanted to fight it off and remain normal so badly that he was willing to let people die in order to preserve his secret. Resolve. No running to the desert. He hoped Edwin Parks was a cop. They needed to lock him away where his ghosts couldn’t harm anyone.
“Quite a story, young man. Very emotional stuff. Now I got one for you.”
Lambs Page 18
