Susan flicked her hair and raised her hand. “Can we talk about how we’re going to get out of here?” she asked, like she wanted to be excused from the class.
“There is no getting out of here!” Emily screamed. “Were you all not listening? He’s not going to let us leave.”
“We have to get out of here,” Angela responded. “We have to. It wants our children. Or, did you miss that part? It’s after our kids. That’s what nobody wants to talk about, right? It said we owe it one child and it’ll spare us all. If this thing is God, then we really have no choice. We already know the answer, we know how to get out of here. Give it one of the kids. Is that what you’re trying to sell us, Emily?”
“No way. No fucking way,” Chris whispered to himself.
Emily felt the eyes of the congregation descend upon her.
“We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, you whore,” Emily hissed. Perhaps it was not the most amicable response, but teeth were bared and Emily wanted to bite first.
“So, there it is,” Angela tried to brush it aside, but the sticky accusation could not be shaken off that easily.
“You got knocked up and brought Rick into this church. You opened your filthy legs, and then you opened the door and welcomed him in. It’s your fault. I hope you understand that. I hope you realize that everyone here is thinking exactly what I’m saying. I really hope you do. I hope you feel it.”
Across the sizable audience that watched the two titans battling it out, Angela searched for a single comforting face. She found none.
“Rick is not the man I knew. Not anymore. He’s something else now, you have to believe me.”
“That’s great, Angela. But it doesn’t change where we are, or the fact that you brought him here. We’re suffering for your sins.”
“That’s enough, Emily!” Gary hollered. “Angela is not to blame. I don’t think anyone in this room is responsible for what’s happening. We’re just fish in a barrel here, and we’ll be easy shooting unless we can stop all this bullshit and work on how we’re actually going to get out of here.”
“Gary, we aren’t going to solve anything until...” Emily was loud, but Gary was louder.
“If you’re not talking about how we get out of here, then you need to shut up. That’s the new rule, okay? Just shut up.”
“You can’t make rules,” Emily scoffed.
“Shut up.”
“God won’t be defied...”
“Shut up!”
“I agree with Gary. Emily should shut up,” Dorothy added modestly.
Emily waited for someone to stand with her, but no one came. Begrudgingly, she stepped out of the spotlight and back into the disjointed congregation. She again found her spot in one of the pews next to Michael, who wrapped his arms around her. Her protest continued subtly through a series of expertly timed sighs and grunts.
Only Angela occupied the front of the sanctuary now. She felt obligated to offer some kind of leadership, or at least general direction. Her thoughts, however, remained focused on Emily’s spiteful comments. After all the carnage that confronted them, how could Emily still find time for petty name-calling? What disturbed Emily so much about her relationship with Rick? Angela didn’t have the first clue. But, she reasoned, there were bigger peaches to flambé than pondering Emily’s grudges. The congregation needed a sense of purposefulness to ward off the impinging despair. It was time to propose some menial job work. Angela, who had once been promoted to the prestigious level of shift supervisor at Bob’s Fresh Grocer, felt up to the task.
“Okay, so here’s what I think we should do. First, we can’t leave Don lying out here like this. We’ll have to find a place to move both him and Sandy. Second, like Gary said, if we’re going to be in here for a bit, which seems likely, we need to clean the pulpit, the carpet, the walls, everything. Lastly, we may not feel it now, but we’re all going to get hungry sooner or later. We should figure out what food we have and start dishing it out per family. Does that sound good to everyone?”
Heads nodded, but no one answered. That’s about as much enthusiasm as Angela expected.
Susan’s meek hand lifted into the air again. Angela was not sure exactly how to deal with her self-declared pupil.
“Uh, yes Susan?” she pointed to her.
“I have something to add to the list.”
“Of course, I’m not the boss. I’m just suggesting what to do. We all have to decide together.”
“Okay, in that case, don’t you think we should check on the children?”
CHAPTER 21
In the musty seclusion of the basement, Clara had been biding not only her time, but that of the children as well. Much like Angela, she had tasked the children with little odds and ends to keep them busy. They gathered the loose construction paper, organized then reorganized the chairs, and made sure each jar of paint had the correct colour-coordinated lid. However, as ten minutes turned into thirty, and thirty into fifty, the effectiveness of these distractions had begun to wane, and even the children could tell something was wrong.
The gravity with which Don had spoken to Clara had made an unshakable impression. Never had she seen Don so severe, not even when John Crates stood up and died of a heart attack in the middle of one of his sermons. His composure was not easily dispelled, but then again, the windstorm they had just run through would be enough to give anyone the jitters. Clara thought of the clouds she had seen, those contorting masses of black oil. She tried to imagine their hypnotic movement, but found it impossible to recreate. It was unlike any other storm she had ever seen. It didn’t move with the wind – it had moved with purpose.
While her thoughts continued to till the mystery, her hand had taken to flicking her lighter back and forth. The nervous reflex gifted the flame a brief life and then snatched it away as quickly as it came.
Clara leaned against one of the moveable walls, adjusting her loosely-fitted jean capris as she sat down against the cold, stone floor with a weary sigh. What she wanted most was to fall into her snuggly sofa with a cold beer and some reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The tale of a powerful heroine besting bad guys seemed irresistible in that moment.
Once she was seated, her incessant flicking of the lighter momentarily halted and the flame remained on. Her lost and longing sight became trapped in its glow.
The meek light reached into the dark with caution. The dark reached back. A dull moan grew in the basement, as if in protest to the flame itself. It sounded like the pipes had been stricken with an infection and their sore throats sung in pain. Whatever spurred the outburst, it was clear the flame was not welcome and Clara snapped her lighter closed. As soon as she did, the moaning stopped. The basement again was silent but for the whispers of the children.
Stanley Rosenthal shot out from around the corner of the wall, sending a jolt of adrenaline through Clara’s body. Once Clara regained her composure, and the wall behind her stopped rocking back and forth, she felt ready to acknowledge Stanley’s impatience.
“What is it you need Stan?”
“You’re smoking.”
“No. No I’m not,” she said, more than a little annoyed.
“Yes you are.”
“Stanley! What did I just say?”
“You shouldn’t smoke inside,” he pressed. “My mom told me to tell her if you smoked around us.”
Before she could respond, Clara had to subdue the urge to curse out Emily and her self-righteousness. Did Emily really think she was that careless to smoke around the children? She took a breath and got to her feet, armed with a carefully worded response.
“Well, Stanley, you’re mother is right. I shouldn’t smoke around you. Smoking is bad. So, luckily for both of us, I wasn’t smoking.”
“Why do you do it if it’s bad?”
“Sometimes we don’t always do things that make sense. It’s a weird adult thing that you needn’t worry about.” She waited for him to leave, but he didn’t.
“We’re finished,
” he said eventually.
“Everything is done? Are all the paints put away?”
“Yes.”
“I mean neatly placed where they should be, not just dumped under the table like they usually are.”
“We did that.”
“Okay, let me see.”
Clara placed the lighter into her pocket and let Stanley lead her back into the classroom.
The children looked as though they had been through war. They were tired and disheartened, dressed in sad, sleepy faces. Samantha Rosenthal rested her head on the table and didn’t even turn to greet Clara as she entered. Dylan sat in the chair in front of her with an overstated pout and crossed arms. The only one who didn’t seem agitated by all the waiting, but should have been, was Alex. He stood in the corner, facing the room with his hands politely clasped behind his back. He seemed neither pleased nor aggravated; he looked more like he was awaiting something.
“Hey gang,” Clara said with exhausted cheer. “I know you all want to leave, but I’m sure it won’t be much longer.”
“I have to pee,” said Samantha, who finally raised her sleepy head.
“I know sweetie, but we were asked to wait down here and we told them we would. We just have to be patient.”
“But I have to go now.”
“You sure you can’t hold it any longer?”
“No...” She performed a squirming dance of agony in her seat.
Although Clara was accustomed to Samantha’s dramatics, she believed she was telling the truth. The only available bathroom – other than the one in Don’s office – was located in the mess hall. She was sure she could trust the children alone for the five minutes it would take to rush Samantha upstairs and back again. What could five minutes hurt? On top of that, Clara admitted to herself that it was a welcome excuse for her to find out what was going on.
“Alright, we’ll go.” She took Samantha by the hand. “The rest of you just hold tight.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Stanley blurted out.
“Have all the pencil crayons been sharpened?”
“No.” He regretted his question.
“Then you know what to do. We’ll be back before you know it.”
She led Samantha down the hallway of temporary walls. Perhaps it was due to the time they had spent in the maze, but the hallway felt like it was shrinking. Both of them were privately relieved once they stepped out of the labyrinth and the room at last fully opened to them.
Samantha’s dressy pink shoes tapped noisily across the floor, announcing every little step as they approached the base of the stairs. Each innocent click of her heel added to Clara’s anxiety; Don said to keep the children downstairs, but when you have to go, you have to go. Still, she considered picking Samantha up just to spare herself the tap, tapping reminders that she was doing something wrong.
The rusty drain in the centre of the room made a sour hiss as they passed by. Clara was familiar with the sound, but Samantha was startled and wrapped her arms around Clara’s leg. She buried her head into the back of Clara’s thigh, trapping her breath against her skin. The sudden warmth sent a wave of shivers through Clara’s leg.
“Hey, it’s okay,” said Clara, placing her hand on Samantha’s head.
“It’s snakes!” she screamed into Clara.
“It’s not snakes. It’s just the drain.”
“The snakes are in the drain!”
“Samantha, I promise, there are no snakes. It’s just water that’s dripped down there. Just like a sink. Everything’s fine.”
Everything was certainly not fine, Clara thought to herself, but it seemed like that's what Samantha needed to hear. Angela would not have left Alex in the basement without so much as an update unless something was seriously wrong.
Samantha pulled her face off the support leg. A string of clear snot ran from the inner canals of her nose all the way down to Clara’s knee. It was a surprisingly sizable discharge.
Clara helped steady Samantha back on her own two feet.
“Alright, Samantha, you ready to get out of here now?”
“No,” came the response, obstructed by the excessive wiping of her nose.
“No? Don’t you have to go to the bathroom?”
Samantha did not answer verbally, but the shame that hung on her face said it all. Clara looked at Samantha’s frilly dress – as if she needed proof – and saw the stains.
Damn that drain! Now what excuse did Clara have to see what was going on up there?
Just then, an airy creak glided down from the top step of the stairs. The second creak came a few seconds later.
“Oh, good,” Clara breathed and smiled at Samantha. “It’s about time someone came down.”
The two of them listened for the third step, but none came. Their eyes waited impatiently at the bottom of the stairs for someone to emerge. Strange, Clara noticed, the lights were not turned on; whoever was descending the stairs was doing it in utter darkness.
“Hello?” Clara spoke up. “Who’s there?”
There was no reply. Clara waited for some kind of response, and then, one came. The third step was not a delicate creak; it was a stomp. More than that, it was the wailing of strained wood on the verge of cracking. Another thump followed with enough force for Clara to feel it in her skull. The thunderous steps suggested a weight and power far beyond anyone in the congregation, or anyone, anywhere, for that matter.
Samantha latched herself once again to Clara’s leg, though this time, Clara did not even notice.
Two more booming footsteps called out from the shadows. Whatever it was, it was drawing nearer. Clara backed away. It was then she noticed Samantha’s weight attached to her leg. The rest of the children had gathered at the threshold of the makeshift hallway.
Although Clara’s primal urge for self-preservation had coaxed her heart into a ramped-up frenzy and warmed the muscles in her arms and legs, she fought the instinct to hide herself. First and foremost, she had an obligation to the children. It was safe to assume that whatever was coming down the stairs was not their friend. It would not be calmed by a kindly welcome or be softened by innocent children. There was a menacing tone in its relentless thumping, like an oncoming avalanche that enjoyed the chase.
Clara picked Samantha up and handed her over to her brother, then kneeled down in front of the children and attempted to appear calm.
“I want everyone to hide, alright?” she said quickly.
“What is that banging?” asked Stanley.
“I just need everyone to find the best hiding spot they can and stay there until I call for you. Can you guys do that for me?”
“It’s a game?” piped up Dylan, from the back of the group.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“No, it’s not.” Alex refuted. He and Clara shared an understanding of the situation, except Alex didn’t seem to care much for putting the rest of the group at ease.
The thumping of the beast on the stairs played in tandem with Clara’s heartbeat, bringing her back to the moment.
“Everybody ready? Are you thinking of a place to hide?” she asked, but only saw a few nods. “Alright, go!”
The kids scattered into the maze, but Clara didn’t follow. She stood and turned to face whatever might be making those terrible noises.
The stomping had reached such an intensity that it took Clara all her strength not to cover her ears. With her promise to protect the children feeding her courage, she edged closer to the stairs in the chance she might steal a glimpse of what was coming. The shadows denied her even a hint. The harsh bangs suggested a mammoth animal, but the way they slid from step to step gave the impression of a peculiar refinement. It could not simply be a wild thing for, like the clouds before, it moved with a human awareness.
The overhead lights in the basement reached as far as the fourth step from the bottom. Whatever it was, it had stopped on the fifth.
Her right hand grabbed her left and held it tight, as if to offer it
comfort. Soon, they were both clasped together in front of her and she found herself pleading to God for support, which in her mind was as mysterious and awesome as the thing on the stairs.
“Oh God, please give me strength. For the children.” After the words were spoken aloud, there was a measurable change in her fortitude. It was as if her courage had been recharged, though, it could not be said whether that was due to God’s influence or her own remarkable resilience.
The quiet is worse than the thunder, she thought, staring into the silent abyss. She envisioned a rabid creature with drool and teeth, jumping from the darkness, its claws aimed for her throat. She almost longed for it; at least then, she would know where she stood. The torment of uncertainty was far more dreadful than whatever it may be, monster, demon, or otherwise.
While she awaited the emergence of the beast, something wet touched the back of her leg. Samantha? No, she’s hiding. This is colder, wetter. Clara was reminded of the children and their finger-painting, until the hand slithered under the edge of her pants and up her thigh.
She didn’t scream, but quickly pulled away and spun around like a twirling dancer poised for her next move.
To Clara’s shock, the algid touch belonged to Bruce, though, it was not the Bruce she knew. What was hunched before her bore a resemblance to the familiar piano player, but was marred with scars and painted with sloppy coats of blood. The two gashes that ripped down his face appeared deeper than before, as if they had been freshly reopened. Most startling were his unbefitting grey eyes that seemed to glow when set against all that red. His foggy pupils followed her with an intimidating thirst.
His body remained squatting like a frog near her feet. A smear of blood trailed from him to the opening of the drain, which made it seem, impossibly, that he had crawled out of its five-inch diameter.
As the shock of his disfigured visage started to fade, Clara discovered she felt pity for his sniveling form, despite his repugnance. He didn’t move but for a gentle swinging back and forth like a rocking horse. His hands cupped his mouth, catching a minimal flow of bile that dribbled from his swollen lips like a helpless baby. It was all so bizarre that she completely forgot the footsteps on the stairs.
Worship Me Page 12
