Worship Me

by Craig Stewart

  She knew she had to say something, but what could she say to a man in such a state? She wiped the bloody fingerprints off her leg before she managed her first words to him.

  “Bruce? What happened?” was the best she had to offer.

  His reaction reminded her of the feral rabbit she once accidentally startled in her mother’s garden. The rabbit had attempted to hop away from her, but once it learned it was cornered, it had no choice but to lunge with its teeth bared. She cried for two straight hours that afternoon, not only because the bunny had scared her, but also because it so readily acted against its nature – a disturbing insight she never forgot.

  Before she could even raise her arms to guard herself, Bruce was on top of her.

  His hands felt like slippery tongues as they fumbled against her shoulders. She tried to push him off, but he slammed her hard against the cement.

  Jagged fingernails dug into the flesh of her arms and rooted themselves into the fat just beneath the skin. For the first time, Clara screamed.

  In response to her outcry, Bruce’s lips tightened into a smile and he brought his teeth down around her exposed collarbone. He bit ferociously, like a dog with a chew toy, and yanked back with his jaws as if attempting to pull the bone loose.

  As the blood spilled out and the pain dug in, Clara finally released her suppressed survival instinct and roared like a lioness..

  She shoved her recently manicured nails into the open wounds on Bruce’s face. Once they were deep enough to take hold of a solid flap of forehead, she pulled with all her might. If Bruce had not fallen off her, she surely would have torn his face in two.

  He toppled to the soaking ground and scurried into the corner.

  Without so much as a wince from the punctures in her arms or the bite on her chest, Clara shot to her feet, letting the blood fall where it may. She heaved and stared down her enemy as if ready to charge. She could not allow the children to be harmed, so she ignored her fear and took the offensive.

  Bruce rose to his feet and reached into his pocket. The straight razor that had carved the stripes down his face was now his to wield. With a mime’s flourish, he exaggeratedly flipped open the blade and used it to trace the outline of Clara’s body in the air.

  She took a step to her right, he reacted with a step to his left and the two began to circle each other.

  If he was afforded even one decent swipe with that razor, Clara could be for the worms, and how could she protect the children then? Without warning, she darted into the maze.

  Once she was out of his sight, she momentarily succumbed to her wounds. Clara applied pressure to the bite and it reacted with an aching scream. After she learned of its depth, she wished she had not; her index finger could almost feel around the entire circumference of her collarbone. Stilted breaths took over.

  Bruce approached the entrance to the hallway and Clara narrowly avoided him by ducking into one of the unused spaces she had sectioned off. She was thankful none of the kids had chosen that room as their hiding spot, or she may have led Bruce right to them.

  The stalking abomination made no effort to conceal himself as the sound of his wet, slinking stagger left no mystery as to where he was.

  With her body pressed against one of the makeshift walls, she listened to Bruce pace back and forth. With each step came a slight stumble. The sound of his movements gradually faded until they disappeared altogether. Again, there was the return of that unbearable silence.

  She stopped moving. She stopped breathing. She just waited.

  The delicate, unnoticeable sounds of the basement became impossibly heightened. Clara could soon tell where each little breath was coming from. She hoped Bruce did not share her keen hearing.

  From her classroom, a pencil rolled off the desk and interrupted the subtle soundscape like the sound of a dissonant drum. It crashed against the floor at an almost deafening volume and it seemed like the room itself gasped.

  Before she could act, the wall she leaned on moved. It bobbed against her as someone on the other side brushed passed. She decided to take the chance it was not one of the kids and shoved the wall as hard as she could. The full-bodied resistance on the other side confirmed that it had to be Bruce. So she pushed harder.

  With a physical strength she had rarely utilized, she bulldozed her way through the hallway, toppling the walls like dominoes with Bruce pinned on the other side of the large board. She charged with enough force to lift Bruce off his feet and carry him all the way to the kitchen. With a last barbarian heave, she hurled the board along with Bruce through the doorway. Hanging pots battered his head before he cracked his temple against the metal edge of the sink.

  He landed, motionless against the floor with the broken wall on top of him.

  Clara leaned against the sturdy doorframe in an effort to remain standing after her rampage. She looked over the man she essentially squashed and was surprised, considering his lacerations, that he still had blood to bleed. Yet, there it pooled.

  She placed one hand against her throat as she attempted take control of her panting. Feeling the air rush in and out of her trachea was somehow soothing.

  She closed the kitchen door and latched it.

  “Kids, it’s time to go,” she spoke from her gut.

  There was no response from the other side of the room. No movement whatsoever. Time stretched like she had never experienced.

  “Alex!” she screamed, “Samantha! Dylan...”

  Eventually, something caught her eye. Her head snapped toward its direction as Stanley timidly made his way out of the decimated hallway. Tears streamed down his face. Behind him with matching distress was Samantha. The other children, including Alex, surfaced in time.

  “Oh God, thank you!” Clara exclaimed as her own tears joined the party. However, her thankfulness was short-lived.

  The kitchen door came to life behind her. Bruce was back and the metal hook on the latch did little to contain his furious pounding, so Clara braced herself against it. Every hit felt like the door was about to give way and the thumping quickly bruised her back.

  The children scattered back into the dark like frightened mice. Clara knew they had to take advantage of Bruce’s entrapment while they could. Judging by the sound of cracking wood and failing hinges, their window of opportunity seemed on the verge of closing.

  “No, come back!” she pleaded, over Bruce’s banging. “Don’t hide, run! Stanley, grab Samantha, grab everyone and run upstairs, now!”

  No one moved.

  “You listen to me, you little fucks! Get your asses upstairs right now, goddamn it, or I’ll spank you so hard you’ll shit blood!” Clara channeled the memory of her own mother’s occasional rage. It worked. She had fought fear with fear and she had won; the kids ran across the basement and started filtering upstairs.

  Behind her, the kitchen door cracked halfway down the middle with a tremendous snap and Clara felt the wood start to shift. Through the split came the tip of Bruce’s razor. It lodged itself into Clara’s upper back, just under her left shoulder blade. She could almost hear the cold metal grate against her bone.

  She leaned forward just enough to escape the razor’s reach. In response, Bruce’s hammering raised to new heights of hysteria. He growled like a rabid dog and clawed like a bear.

  Alex followed his classmates, but stopped at the foot of the stairs. He froze on the spot, staring at Clara. Unlike the other children, now all evacuated, Alex was fully aware of what was at stake.

  While the others were consumed by their own terror, Alex was concerned with Clara’s. There she is, he thought to himself, the hero holding back the monster.

  She looked back at him with her face red and glazed with sweat. Greasy strands of hair stuck to her forehead. Not even the violent pounding jolted them from the hold they had on her face.

  “Alex,” she said quietly, “you have to run. Get out of here, please. Go to your mom.”

  Clara was terrified, but if she could at least protect Al
ex from the maniac behind the door, then she would have the courage to face whatever might come.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” she encouraged. “Now go! You have to go, Alex.”

  He did what he was told and charged up the stairs.

  Clara smiled and closed her eyes as the door began to fold down on her. She pressed her head back against the encroaching wood to strengthen its resistance.

  She thought if these were to be her last moments, it was at least fitting she spent them in the service of children. If her life had had a purpose, then that was it. She had devoted her existence to being a teacher and mentor to countless youth. So, to trade her life for the promise of theirs seemed an affable bargain. But the end was not all ease and satisfaction. There were certainly doubts and regrets she carried with her, as well: she never met someone who loved her, just her, more than any other, she never swam with sharks, or made that trip to Easter Island like she promised herself she would. But, what distressed her most, was the pain that no one really knew her. Her ability to keep secrets now seemed more like a detriment. She admitted that even Angela was not made privy to all of her; not the deep, dark stuff. Who had she kept herself secret for? Was she just a mystery chest filled with treasures, cursed by a lifetime of collecting locks and chains? Perhaps God, whoever, wherever and whatever He was, would know her. The notion was comforting and with Bruce gnawing just behind her head, she prayed it was true.

  The sound of hurried footsteps coming down the stairs interrupted her doleful reflection.

  “Yes!” she hollered. “Help, quick, I’m down here!”

  Clara slammed her palms against the doorframe and locked her knees. If she could just keep Bruce back long enough for help to arrive, then maybe she, too, could be spared. Her muscles had started to shake, and fatigue threatened to collapse her entire body. Bruce by comparison, seemed to have only gained in strength.

  Finally, her rescuer emerged. It was Alex, returned to defend his own protector. Though his valor was touching, she did wish he had brought someone who could have actually helped.

  Alex grabbed one of the plastic chairs that were strewn across the floor and held it in front of him like a shield. He nodded to Clara as if to notify her he was ready. Clara just shook her head. She barely had the breath to speak, but she managed to steal a few words here and there.

  “Alex. Go. I told you to go. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fi...” Her last sentence was cut short as the door burst into a thousand splinters. Alex held the chair up to protect himself from the barrage of jagged wood daggers hurling through the air.

  Clara was knocked face down onto the ground, letting out a grunt as she hit the cement.

  The light in the kitchen flickered on and off like a thunderstorm in the ocean – pitch black with brief, terrifying flashes of luminance, always revealing something you did not want to see.

  Bruce appeared, and then vanished into darkness, only to appear again in the next flash. Each time, he was slightly closer.

  Alex shook at the sight of the monster’s hideous smile.

  Bruce grabbed hold of Clara’s ankle, which ripped another scream from her. She reached desperately for something, anything she could take hold of.

  Alex caught one of her hands in his and with all his limited might, started to pull. He pulled so hard, his rubber shoes squeaked as he kicked against the floor. The three were engaged in a twisted game of tug-of-war and Clara was the prize.

  With one arm, Bruce yanked Clara into the kitchen like she weighed nothing more than a husk of corn. Alex blinked and suddenly his hands were empty.

  Though the shuttering light masked her assault, Clara’s agonizing screams painted a clear picture.

  Afraid to stand as Clara’s final witness, Alex, at long last took her advice and ran.

  CHAPTER 22

  By the time Alex reached the top of the stairs, the other children had already found themselves safely tucked away in the arms of their parents.

  Over half of the congregation had gathered in the mess hall, but had kept a distance between themselves and the stairs leading into the pit of screams. Alex had emerged from that hell, to everyone’s surprise, with only a few nicks and bruises.

  With the scattered images of Clara’s attack still rolling through his vision, Alex stared through the crowd with vacant eyes. His mind could gather only superficial observations. The day was dimmer than before. Everyone’s Sunday clothes were dirty now. There were little red droplets all over everything. None of this distressed him, however. They were simply facts.

  “Alex!” yelled Angela, as she pushed her way through the crowd.

  Once she broke free of the mob, she rushed over to squeeze the stoicism out of her son. He was jolted back into his body when she lifted him off the ground and planted her warm cheek next to his. Her hands moved all over him as if he were made of something precious and at risk of falling apart.

  “Are you okay? There was screaming, what happened?”

  “Mom...” came his thin voice.

  “Yes, buddy, what is it?”

  “I couldn’t hold on. I wasn’t strong enough.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Miss Muller. She’s still down there.”

  “Clara’s downstairs?”

  Slowly, she lowered Alex back down to his feet. Maybe Alex is mistaken. Maybe Clara came up with the other children and he just missed her. Please, let him be mistaken. Please! Angela’s gaze searched the congregation but she saw nothing to prove her son wrong. Reluctantly, her vision returned to the cavernous opening of the stairs. The screams she had heard, those pained howls, were Clara’s. She escorted her son over to Susan, who had maneuvered herself to the front row.

  “Take Alex,” she said, handing him over.

  “Sure. Why?” Susan inquired.

  Angela turned away from her without responding. She knew she could not answer the question without forfeiting her composure.

  Dorothy stepped out from the crowd.

  “Where’s Clara?” she asked Angela. After a moment of silence, she asked again, “Angela, where’s my daughter?”

  “The basement.”

  “Oh, Christ...” Dorothy’s head began to shake. “No, no, I’m asking you about Clara. Where’s my Clara?”

  “Dorothy, she’s still down there.”

  Dorothy charged over to the stairs. She had heard the screams as well as anybody else, and her imagination had run wild with scenes of unspeakable torture when the wailing reached its peak, but she had not allowed herself to imagine it was her daughter.

  Dorothy stood at the entrance and peered down into the abyss. “Clara!” she bellowed hoarsely. “It’s your mother. You get up here right this second. Enough fooling, you answer me now, Clara! Answer me! I said get up here! Clara!” She pounded the wood trim of the doorframe.

  Angela waited for Dorothy to finish hurling her demands into the dark before she made her approach. Slowly, she placed one hand on Dorothy’s shoulder and gently turned her around so they could speak face to face.

  “Dorothy, we’re going down there. We’re going to find her.”

  “She never listens. I call her and call her. I tell her things, I tell her to stop smoking, I tell her it’s okay to take a break every once in a while. But she never listens, not to me. Never to her dumb mom.”

  “Why don’t you wait up here with everybody? I’ll go see what’s keeping her,” Angela suggested delicately.

  “No, I’m going. She’s my daughter.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I don’t care what you think. I’m going.”

  Reluctantly, Angela agreed.

  “I’ll come with you,” Gary spoke up. He pealed himself away from Tina’s arm and joined Angela and Dorothy.

  “Fine,” Angela confirmed. “Then we all go together.”

  She waited for other volunteers, but after some time it became clear no one else was going to join the rescue team. Everyone ju
st stood there paralyzed, clutching the very children Clara had no doubt suffered, and screamed, and bled to protect. So the three of them turned their backs on the congregation’s cowardice and set forth to find their friend, their daughter, their companion.

  Angela reached along the wall of the stairs until her fingers bumped into the light switch. She held her breath and flicked it on. The light blinked to life without any trouble at all.

  The dusty carpet that flopped down the stairs like a filthy tongue was not the most welcoming of starts, but if this was the path that swallowed Clara, then they were going to follow.

  Their descent felt like they were sinking into a bog. The air was thicker in the basement and carried with it the pungent smell of sweat and death.

  Angela was first to reach the bottom step, followed by Dorothy, who clung to the wall as if afraid she might suddenly drop away. Gary was not far behind them.

  They noticed the floor first. Splintered wood sprayed across the grey stone almost the entire width of the room. Dorothy tromped through the pieces and headed toward the collapsed hallway.

  “Clara, baby?” she called, and began to lift boards and shuffle through debris.

  “Dorothy, wait for us. We should stay together,” Angela said.

  “I’ll stay with her,” Gary assured her.

  “If you find anything,” Angela added, before he made it too far, “you holler back. You let me know, and you hide her eyes. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  A silver glint from the floor attracted Angela’s attention. She kneeled down and brushed away a few wood pieces to find Clara’s lighter – something Clara was rarely without. Whether this was a good or bad omen, Angela did not want to decide, so she shoved it into her pocket before Dorothy could see.

  Dorothy’s voice had grown quieter the further she ventured, but still she persisted in calling Clara’s name. The basement was not large enough to warrant the repetition, yet every five seconds, the widow uttered the name of her missing child, as if it were a chant to conjure her up. The harsh reality was, either Clara was no longer in the basement, or she was unable to answer.