Worship Me
Table of Contents
Title Page
Worship Me
A HellBound Books LLC | Publication
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission from the author | This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are entirely fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental. | www.hellboundbookspublishing.com | Printed in the United States of America
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Craig Stewart
HellBound Books Publishing LLC
A HellBound Books LLC
Publication
Copyright © 2017 by HellBound Books Publishing LLC
All Rights Reserved
Cover and art design by L A Spooner: www.carrionhouse.com for HellBound Books Publishing LLC
Edited by Brandy Yassa
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission from the author
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are entirely fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
www.hellboundbookspublishing.com
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
Dedicated to my sisters, Erin, the reason this story exists, and Blaire, the first person to believe in it.
Without you two, my pages would be blank.
Acknowledgments
It’s been a long time getting here, and I didn’t do it alone, so here are a few people I need to fall on my knees and worship thank.
For offering to suffer through an unpolished manuscript, I’m forever thankful to Mark Stewart, Christine Stewart, Tim Blackburn, Cameron King, Jacob Sheen, Brandon Forsyth and Kirk Dickinson. You all helped bring this beast to life.
For taking a chance on me, I would also like to thank the amazing team at HellBound Books, in particular Jim Longmore for the invaluable guidance, editor Brandy Yassa for chiseling away at my words until they looked pretty, and Luke Spooner for creating such an evocative cover.
And finally, a very special thanks to my Nathan, you know, for that stuff you do.
CHAPTER 1
The Burward Forest was unusually cold, even for an early October morning. The clouds hung lower than normal, held aloft by skeletal treetops. Only the most tenacious leaves still held to their branches. Some would consider this a sight of inspiration, these few heroic flags still flapping, but the brutal truth was, they could not hold forever.
Years of neglect had taken its toll on the forest. The old trotting paths were overgrown and the trees had been left to push their way through the wood fencing, which was on the brink of being entirely swallowed, save for a few stubborn posts.
At the edge of the woods, a crude structure had been erected out of mismatched planks of rotting wood. Most of the material was stolen from neighboring barns, made evident by the peeling red paint speckled randomly throughout the structure’s exterior. It reached almost as high as the trees that helped support it. Unmeasured angles gave it an awkward stance; the roof leaned heavily to one side as if its spine had twisted. It resembled an upturned coffin, peering out over the Davidson’s field, left desolate after the harvest.
Despite the huge opening at the front of the structure, it allowed no light. There were impenetrable shadows embedded within that resisted the prying day; the kind of absolute darkness found in the ocean’s depths. It held onto the night, and perhaps, was even the origin of it.
Kneeling at the base of the structure was a man with his eyes turned up to meet the highest point of the temple, his hands stretched out in unabashed praise. A terrible tremor had taken hold of his body; he was no older than thirty, yet looked hardened by a life of heavy labour.
His complete nakedness, save for light layers of dirt coating his unwashed body, revealed the intricate scars that patterned his skin. They spread from the base of his neck, covering every inch of him like tally marks. They traced down his back and across his shoulders, wrapped around his arms and chest, cutting into the crevices of his armpits before continuing down his torso. Even the sensitive flesh of his groin was not spared the meticulous and mysterious documentation. The only blank canvas left was his face, but that was mostly hidden by a wild beard.
The oddest thing of all was his expression of bliss. A gleeful smile stretched out across his face in joyous defiance against the gloom. It was pure adulation that poured out of him: not sorrow, not terror. Kneeling in front of the imposing structure, he could offer only love and worship – his whole body tingled with it.
He fixated on the dark opening like a dead thing glimpsing Heaven for the first time. Thoughts drifted through the light blue of his eyes, and although his pupils remained pinned in place, his irises toiled and drifted just as the clouds above. In the oblivion gaping before him, he found completeness and order. He seemed to feast on it, as if it was something he hungered for.
The man with spectral eyes was waiting for his master. Then, from deep within the Burward Forest, something stirred.
CHAPTER 2
The cat’s little paw had just finished twitching by the time Clara scrambled out of her minivan. Her eyes were reluctant to look, but she felt obligated to suffer the damage she had caused. It was far worse than she had allowed herself to imagine.
The animal had burst. Its body reduced to an unrecognizable splash of flesh and fur. She did manage to identify a piece that looked like its head perched near her left signal light. It was grimacing like a gargoyle.
“Oh, dang this day,” she mourned, crossing her arms.
She was already late, and now she had this on her conscience. Every Sunday morning, Clara rose to the task of prepping St. Paul’s United Church for the day’s worship. She had been doing this ever since she returned from teacher’s college ten years ago. In all that time, never once was the service held up because of her. Until, she feared, this dang day.
It was not entirely her fault. The family of feral cats had been playing recklessly near the edge of Highway 7. The tragedy was inevitable. Clara was just thankful it was the mother she hit, and not one of the kittens. If it were a baby she had to scrub off her bumper, she might have just turned around and driven back home. Any day that starts with killing a kitten is a day not worth starting.
She rummaged through her van for something to clean with, but all she found was a collapsed box of tissues. She decided they would have to do.
As she brushed off the bones and soaked up the blood, a few cars tore past her down the highway at a speed Clara found more than a little excessive. At one point, the wind from a car almost tipped her over. Briefly, she pictured what she might look like splashed across a hood. Very briefly.
The highway, which had only recently been paved, could lead you to one of two places: either you were heading
to church, or you were escaping—far away. Judging by how the cars tore up pavement, Clara assumed they were not searching for God. Everyone was in a rush to find a way out; no one was in a rush to find the Lord.
Clara neatly piled what remained of the cat by the side of the highway and offered it a moment of silence.
Once she was satisfied due respect had been paid, Clara jumped back into her minivan. The church was waiting and she had taken far too much time.
As she shifted the gear from park to drive, she noticed the half-eaten chocolate chip muffin sitting in the cup holder. To call it a muffin was a bit of a stretch. After all, it was more closely related to a cupcake than an actual muffin; it would be, at best, a third cousin, twice removed. It was the same muffin she was taking a bite out of, the exact moment the cat chose to cross the road. She knew as soon as she bought it that morning that she was going to regret it, and she was right.
Before driving off, she tossed it into the field where she imagined the kittens might be congregating. They were going to need it more than she did, she reasoned.
As she roared into the dirt parking lot of the church, she took note of the time. Twenty minutes later than usual. She had to move fast.
She yanked at her seatbelt, but somewhere along the way the strap had burrowed itself under her left breast. This was a constant annoyance for her and her generous bust. Gradually, the strap was wiggled loose and she was finally free.
She hastily climbed the stone steps of St. Paul’s United Church. As always, the heavy dark wood of the front door greeted her with a satisfying creak. She had precious little time to appreciate it, though. Her fellow church members could be arriving any minute and there was much to be done.
CHAPTER 3
His fingers clawed at the dry leaves. He crushed them in his fists and let the pain dig deep.
The man with spectral eyes had been forced to his hands and knees by the wound freshly opened down the length of his back. It followed his spine all the way from his shoulders to his buttocks. Despite its depth, there was little blood.
The thin gash had been perfectly placed. It completed his tapestry, as if each of his scars had been leading to this masterstroke.
His breath was slow to return to him, but once he could inhale without his entire torso stinging, he took in as much air as he could. And the air took him in as well, surrounding him, swallowing his entire body.
The hungry breeze chased through the trees and rose with him as he got to his feet. He let the cooling touch of the air wrap around him and ease the burning of his wound. The wind brought life back to the woods, but it wasn't the life it once knew. Leaves rustled and branches swayed, but not because of the hustle and bustle of animals – that life was long gone. A presence had invaded and snuffed it out. Now, there was only the wind shaking the remnants of what life had been.
The man took a step forward and peered through the maze of twisting bark. He looked out from the heart of the woods, and saw all the way to its fringe where the forest ended and the field began. Then, he looked beyond even that.
He saw a little country church by the side of a highway and a little woman getting it ready.
Revelation bloomed in his eyes and filled his thoughts as if the woods themselves whispered to him. His path had been revealed, and he was obliged to follow.
CHAPTER 4
Clara’s stained loafers chased across the floorboards as she attempted to get the modest house of God in order.
Known as the mess hall, the first room she entered from outside acted as the main room of the church. From this space, one could enter any of the other rooms, including the sanctuary, the basement, and even the small stage, which inadequately hosted the Christmas concert every year. The smell of the space was a stirring combination of sweet mould and dust, but a homely familiarity with the odour kept it from offending.
She dropped her bags by the old piano, which had been left to rot in the corner of the mess hall since it was about as useful as a wagon with no wheels.
She then laid down tablecloths for the morning snacks and started the coffee maker.
Once in the sanctuary, Clara hurried passed rows of empty pews on her way to the front pulpit. Fresh red carpet ran the length of both the aisles leading to the centre of the room where they met in an explosion of intense crimson. The carpet did not stop there; it led up the steps that elevated the pulpit to the highest point in the room and even reached behind, into the minister’s office.
Clara climbed halfway up the steps where a large hand-carved table presented a Bible of biblical proportions. The book would have put the most generously-sized atlas to shame. Would you expect anything less for a map of the human soul? she thought.
The sheer weightiness of the text gave Clara comfort. When she pulled back its thick, hard cover, Clara had to fight the urge to grunt. Surely, within its heft, there was something of worth.
She searched through the pages until she found the day’s requested readings from the Book of Job. A thin, red ribbon held the page and Clara went about her other tasks.
She laid out the collection plates, readied a glass of water for the minister, and lit the many candles in their holders about the room. After a final check to make sure each pew had its appropriate hymnbook, Clara, astonished she finished in time, stood back to observe her work.
Any minute now, the congregation would start arriving. There was just one thing left for her to do.
She fished through her purse for her pack of smokes. She had been nursing it for a week. Only two left. She removed a semi-bent cigarette, lit it using one of the less ceremonial candles, then exited the building.
Clara was excellent at keeping secrets. Through a life of being invisible, one masters the ease of unnoticeable acts. Her addiction to the smooth smoke, which even then caressed her lungs in the most seductive way, was certainly one of her favourite indulgences.
When her mother scolded her years ago for recklessly abusing her body with known carcinogens, Clara promised she would stop. Now, it played a dual role in her life. On the juvenile side, she was telling her mom to fuck off with every puff; on the darker side, she was entertaining a minor death wish. She could always console herself that the decision to smoke belonged solely to her. She owned it, regardless of its impurity. So what if it hastened her own demise; was that so dreadful? She often rationalized: why should the things that make her happy not bring her closer to Heaven? Maybe God made addiction for a reason.
The smoke crawled up through the morning light as Clara took care in blowing it far enough away to keep the smell from clinging to her clothes. She tapped the ashes onto the parking lot and used the loose dirt to hide them.
Worried that the early birds could start arriving, she decided to finish the cigarette around the back of the building.
That’s when she noticed the breeze. Usually it came across the field from the South, but this morning it was coming from the West.
The wind sent shivers through the dried corn stocks missed during the harvest, giving the dead something to chatter about. Most were bluntly hacked off near the base, with a few discarded pieces left scattered like golden confetti across the expanse.
Clara found it depressing, so she turned from the field and focused on the church.
The building was a loner like her. Here it sat with the Davidson’s cornfield bordering it on three sides, utterly isolated. As the wear and tear of the passing seasons wore on, it had no one to commiserate with about its failing ceiling or rusting hinges. It had to bear its hardships alone. Then again—and with this revelation, Clara broke into a smile—being alone was all it knew, and all it had ever known. That was its nature. Maybe by this point, the taste of companionship would be too sweet to bear anyway.
She took in two more quick puffs. The cigarette was now half of what it was. She knew she was running the risk of being found out, but Clara was determined to enjoy the smoke to its fullest.
As she savoured the taste, her vision fixed on t
he sizable stained-glass window that stretched from floor to ceiling on the north side of the church. Its simple depiction of worldly ascension into Heaven was something troubling to Clara. Seeing the Kingdom on high, with its trumpeting angels portrayed so literally, it made the whole thing seem silly to her, like a snippet from a fairytale picture book.
Clara had a more nuanced view: if Heaven really was paradise, then surely earthly limitations, such as flesh and clothing, would have no place there. Clara’s eyes closed as she imagined escaping her physical body into an exquisitely inexplicable wonderland. Floating there, wherever it may be, she knew she’d be warm, and feel boundless, and connected, and most importantly, she’d feel like she belonged. When her eyes opened again, however, the image of hungry people clambering up, tumbling like a flood toward a palace of clouds overflowing with gorgeous, winged humanoids was still standing there, twelve feet tall.
It was at this point she thought of Angela Morris and the disappearance of her husband, Rick. There was not a day that passed when she did not think of Angela at some point. Even if it was just a flicker of regret that they had not talked that day, Angela would come up.
The two women had been friends for a long time. They first met in Sunday school when Angela asked Clara to help her pick out crayons so she could colour her drawing of Jesus on a donkey. With their combined artistic savvy, they managed to depict a sickly mule sporting yellowish-green hair instead of the traditional brown, but that’s beside the point.
The two of them depended on one another and their trust grew naturally, until they were comfortable confiding every secret they had, transitioning from friends to sisters in a matter of months. As the two matured into young adults, so did their secrets, but no matter how personal, never once did they hold back from each other. Angela learned all about Clara’s suffocating mother, and of her lonely lunchtimes at school when the other girls refused to eat with her, claiming her fatness would rub off on them, until the teacher forced them to, which was even lonelier. And Clara learned of Angela’s absent father, who spent more time staring down the bottom of a bottle than he did with his own daughter, and the time she almost risked him finding out she visited an abortion clinic, for which he would have cracked his precious bottle over her precious head. Luckily for Angela, it was a false alarm, and even luckier he never found out. They were each other’s most trusted confidante, and, Clara imagined, probably the reason she hadn't sent herself to Heaven yet, though this one secret she did keep to herself. She thanked God for having bound them together. That was until Angela met Rick.
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