The only comfort that remained was that one day, when she was rid of the curse of flesh, her soul would rise up to join her daughter and her husband in the house of their God. This notion did not ease the ache that clasped at her heart – only hearing Clara’s voice again could do that – but it did keep her moving forward.
Then, the wind brushed against the outer wall of the church and produced a familiar sound, like someone humming. It was a somber, disjointed tune, but Dorothy found its melancholy soothing. She folded her hands and listened to the hollow drone.
But the hum changed. It became more distinct. Slowly, it shifted into breathy murmuring, until finally, and impossibly, it formed into words. It was so subtle that Dorothy didn’t realize what she was hearing until it was too late to deny it.
“Mother...” it called out, with a decaying shudder. Dorothy’s breath stopped and the blood drained from her face. The voice was muffled, barely audible, but Dorothy dared to admit it almost sounded like... No, it couldn’t be..
Her hands unfolded and she spun herself around the room in search of the voice. The shadows that once liberated her now taunted her with their secrets.
She exited the room for a brief moment and returned with the flashlight that had been left out in case someone needed the washroom in the middle of the night.
Without pausing, she clicked on the beam and pointed it into every bit of darkness she could find. The chairs were still stacked, the stage looked untouched, the decrepit piano still looked as sad as ever. Nothing was out of place.
“Mom...” The voice returned, but this time it felt closer. It was no longer some airy exhalation; it had come from a human throat. It had come from Clara.
The light moved to illuminate the doorway leading into the basement. Dorothy held it there, unsure of what she was expecting to see. The door itself was closed and locked.
“Clara?” Dorothy asked, and waited impatiently for something to react. “Clara, baby? Is that you?”
With even steps she walked toward the door.
Dorothy was not a stupid woman. She was aware the mind could play tricks on you, especially when it was under stress. Though, in this case, the cruelty of the prank was something she hoped her mind was incapable of. Regardless, if it was her imagination, the wind, or some creature luring her, she had no choice but to follow. In light of recent miracles, maybe it was possible her daughter was still alive. It was that slim chance that gave her feet the courage to continue.
She reached the door and pressed her ear against it. Mostly she just heard the sound of her own thumping blood, as the aged wood was thick and insulating.
The metal latch was unhooked and pulled from its locked position with a screech. She swung the door open and immediately chased away the mystery of the stairwell with her flashlight.
“Who’s down there?” she demanded.
“Mommy...” came the return from deep inside the cave.
She began her descent.
Despite the thorough wrapping job of the bodies, the smell of death was once again fast upon her. She moved warily to give her feet time to find each step.
A breeze met her once she reached the bottom of the stairs. The windows were closed, yet the gust felt as free as the one that tussled with the chopped corn stalks outside. From where it emanated, Dorothy had no explanation. Although the wind gave her a slight chill, it was the mystery of it all that was to blame for the goose bumps on her arms. Still, she rubbed the shivers away and followed her limited ray of light further into the basement, again toward the partly demolished classrooms.
“Are you down here, Clara?” she asked.
She shoved some of the fallen dividers out of her way and cleared a straight path to where the children had been drawing. Compared to the rest of the basement, the classroom appeared more or less intact. The table was tipped over, as the kids had hidden behind it during the attack. A few of their tree drawings had fallen onto the floor.
Her spotlight moved across Clara’s workstation, which was comprised of a Bible, a notepad, pens, pencils, construction paper, safety scissors, paint, and glue paste. The tabletop was dusty with wood shavings and crayon fragments. Dorothy knelt down and flipped open the pad of paper. She found pages filled with scribbled ideas for Sunday school lessons, including some that she recognized as her own.
“Mom.” This time the voice was so close, Dorothy felt the words on the back of her neck.
She whipped around with her flashlight pointed straight out in front of her. The room was as empty as before.
Dorothy clasped the silver dove necklace around her neck that her husband gave her for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Since he died, she had been wearing it every day. Her thumb caressed the contours of the pure metal bird, which helped to calm the shaking of her hands.
“Be with me Al. Help me find her,” whispered Dorothy to herself. The next part she announced to the room: “Clara! Baby, where are you? Please, if you’re here, let me know. Make a sound. Say my name. Call to me, baby, and I’ll find you. God will give me strength to find you. Please, just come back to me.”
She pleaded desperately into the ether and begged it to react, but nothing seemed impressed by her sorrow. It was not that she felt alone; there was no question in her mind that a presence was all around her, but if no amount of shed tears could persuade it to let Clara return, then she would have to dry her cheeks and take her grief elsewhere. She could barely suffer her own loss, let alone having it mocked.
One step out of the classroom brought her foot in contact with a stray piece of paper. She pointed her flashlight downwards and found a drawing trapped under her right heel.
Before she could get a good look at it, three delicate droplets of blood tapped onto the page.
Dorothy’s flashlight searched out who had shed the blood. It didn’t take long; the source was standing right in front of her. The glow immediately illuminated the sweet smile of Clara’s broken face. Her features were just as torn, just as wet, just as foul as they were when Angela first found her. Only now Clara’s pale eyes were turned in attention to Dorothy, who stumbled backwards at the ghastly sight. She wanted Clara back, but not like this.
The flashlight seemed to fall in slow motion. Its glass cracked against the floor and Clara’s mangled form was caught in the fractured light like the flicker of a campfire.
Dorothy had landed on her back, half crushing one of the plastic chairs. She looked up at the sickly leer of her dead daughter, but only managed to stand the sight for another five seconds before she covered her own face.
“No! I can’t bear it again! Leave me, please!” she begged and kicked her legs to be sure the dead thing had not started approaching.
“It’s okay, mom.” Clara’s voice sounded as if it were drowned in space, like she spoke from the belly of a huge, ancient cathedral. Her lips moved, but the sounds she made did not quite match up. Although her mother refused to look, she continued, “Everything’s okay. I’m okay now. I’m with the beast.”
Dorothy’s fingers trembled apart and her eyes peeked out between the slits. Clara’s corpse bent down toward her, the exposed bones shifting and popping.
“Please God, make it go away.”
“I can be with you. I can be with you forever.” Clara’s eyes never changed. They did not blink, or shift focus. They just kept staring like the painted eyes of a puppet.
“Clara, if that’s you. Understand, I can’t see you like this. I can’t do this,” Dorothy sobbed, shaking her head in refusal.
“You can. You have to. Join me, mom. I miss you. Don’t keep us apart.” Clara had no lungs and when she spoke, Dorothy could feel the air from the room being pulled into her empty chest and through her vocal chords.
The thing in front of Dorothy that called her its mother did not seem much like Clara. However, even this monstrous estimation of her daughter was better than nothing. If Dorothy closed her eyes, she could almost have her back to the way she was.
“H
ow? Tell me how to be with you again,” asked Dorothy.
“Follow him. Worship him. Join me.” Clara’s doll-like smile almost appeared tender.
A piece of paper was then placed in Dorothy’s lap. Her eyes dared to look and found it was the torn drawing she had stepped on. By the time her eyes shifted back up to Clara, she was gone. The only sign of her ever having been there were the bloody fingerprints she left on the page.
Dorothy made no attempt to get to her feet; instead she poured her energies into steadying her rampaging heart. Clara’s visit had left Dorothy dry in the mouth and dizzy. Yet, she pleaded quietly, “Come back. Come back to me. Please.”
Alone in the basement, Dorothy sat with what she just experienced. She thought of the Bible and the visions of prophets. She recalled burning bushes, descending angels, important heavenly stars and obscure apocalyptic omens. None of them compared to the encounter she had just had. She was taught that God spoke in mysterious ways, but what she saw was not mysterious. It was as direct as a bullet to the head. Her daughter had reached out from beyond death and gave her the key she needed to join her in eternity. That key was the Behemoth.
Her hands went limp and hit the paper still resting on her thighs. It was a drawing of a tree. Next to it stood an ominous, dark figure. The author’s name was written in big black letters at the bottom: Alex.
CHAPTER 25
For Susan, life had, in some seemingly blessed way, never delivered her a fair share of obstacles. While other kids her age were bogged down by unpopularity, strict parents, acne, or just good, old-fashioned social awkwardness, Susan glided through her existence with a charming positivity, led by the irresistible flick of her golden hair.
Her father had a respectable, steady job as a city lawyer, as did her mother until Susan was born. From the moment the Greenfields brought back their first baby girl, Mrs. Greenfield took it upon herself to redesign the world specifically for her child’s success. It all stemmed from an old family philosophy: if you don’t teach someone how to fail, then they have no choice but to prevail. In Susan’s case, this theory proved true. Piano lessons had taught Susan diligence, gold medals at track and field had taught perseverance, honour role programs had taught her to think critically. To top off her bountiful achievements, she boasted a glowing smile and the kind of body that taught young boys to become young men. Though, she had remained pure and untouched, just as her father requested, she certainly had had her share of adoring suitors. Matthew was one of those hungry puppies, and she knew it, but had decided to ignore his innocent drooling to make room for more pressing matters, such as her future. She had joined her local conservative party to help pass out pamphlets to innocent passersby on the street, and volunteered at both the animal shelter and the Salvation Army. If there were things that needed fixing, she had the power to fix them.
On paper, this seemed like the life to live, but the problem with smelling roses all the time was that it left no room for lessons in personal disappointment, or regret, or fear, or even death. Her parents wouldn’t allow animals, so the usual first exposure to losing a loved one was robbed from her. Both sets of grandparents were still alive; not only that, but on one side, she still had a coherent great grandmother who lived only thirty minutes away. To Susan, life was as effortless as another bite of cheesecake. At least it was until Rick had delivered his sermon earlier that day.
Don often spoke of the beauty of the human spirit, but she realized now that he was only trying to separate people from the nasty reality of flesh and rot. In her newly-formed opinion, life was like a pathetic, naked slug that oozed about the surface of the planet with one selfish concern – to continue to live. It was too dumb to realize its drive to exist was also the cause of all its pain. So blindly, the slug continued to bump its way along. What had disturbed her the most, however, was her own powerlessness to change this reality in any way. Unlike world hunger, there were no petitions to sign or donations to be made. Perhaps, if she had been exposed to such darkness before, it wouldn’t have been able to consume her so utterly.
She attempted to reconcile everything she had seen with the concept of the Christian God she grew up with. Then, she finished taking her shit and flushed the toilet.
It was the discomfort in her bowels that had awoken her from her much-needed sleep in the first place. She had lain awake on the floor for fifteen minutes before the pressure became too much to ignore.
On the cold, white, porcelain throne she sat, lit by a candle she brought with her. She would have used the flashlight if it hadn’t mysteriously disappeared.
While she pulled her pants back on, the flame of the candle faltered and threatened to blowout. Her sudden movement could have caused the disturbance in the air, at least she hoped it had. With her pants only half way up her legs, she froze and watched the candle – her precious and solitary light source – as it struggled to regain its prominence. Eventually, it did and she breathed easy, although carefully as to not disrupt the flame again.
In the mirror, Susan found a young, but visibly troubled woman. Dark patches had settled under her eyes and sweat gave her normally immaculate skin a dirty shine. She couldn’t remember the last time she had gone this long without washing, or even basic grooming. The polish she had applied to her fingernails remained intact, but all the scrubbing she had done in the sanctuary left stubborn red stains in the grooves of her hands.
She turned the water on and splashed the revitalizing liquid against her face. She then shook herself dry like a dog, hoping to not only do away with the water from her face, but also the thoughts from her head.
Susan returned to the sanctuary where everything was just how she had left it. She cupped her candle to keep the glow away from sleeping eyes.
In the dim light, maneuvering down the aisle without stepping on anyone was a challenging task. Susan quietly thanked her mother for forcing her to take ballet lessons, as it allowed her to use only the top edge of her feet and move lightly between the bodies. In her tired state, she had forgotten where her mother had chosen to sleep and had to search her out.
She resorted to examining footwear in order to locate her. When she came to a pair of scruffy runners that looked impossibly out of date, she stopped. She knew those shoes belonged to Matthew.
She had not had the time yet to tell Matthew how sorry she was about his grandmother. Since Flora lost her eyes, Matthew had been spending every moment and expending every bit of energy he had, taking care of her. When she lost consciousness, Matthew remained awake for as long as he could in the chance she might need something. She began to think that maybe she had misjudged him.
When she looked up to his face, she was amused to discover he had pulled the covers up over his head like a child scared of the boogeyman.
She grabbed the edge of the thin sheet and gently tugged it down to his shoulders. It was a nice face, she thought. She had not really given his features that much attention before. His eyes darted back and forth under his lids and he wore an anxious expression, emphasized by the dancing of his eyebrows. He looked so innocent. She leaned in and kissed his cheek. It was just something in the moment she wanted to do – to offer him comfort, compassion, or maybe even love. For her, the impulse came and went. For whatever reason she did it, it seemed to have eased him.
A branch scraped across the stained-glass window with a grating screech.
She immediately looked up. The colours had been tainted by moonlight, and the silhouette of a large, leafless tree was waving to her from the other side of the glass. It looked gnarled and old, as most trees in the fall do. The shadows cast by its gaunt branches spread out like a web across the window and shivered in the breeze. The tree reached all the way to the top of the window where a thicker entanglement had formed – a dark patch that attempted to blot out Heaven.
Although the image of its creeping form evoked an old drawing of a witch that had terrorized Susan for most of her childhood, she could not help but be mesmerized by its undula
ting rhythm. Her hand, which had been shielding the light of her candle, dropped to her side.
As soon as the flame was opened to the room, the shadows stirred.
Two of the branches started to move contrary to the others and what Susan had mistaken for a tree, turned its head toward her. The more it moved, the more Susan could distinguish what was tree from what was beast, though they shared many similar characteristics.
Susan stopped everything in mortal fear it would draw the attention of the creature.
The beast itself stood as tall as the tree, but most of its body remained hidden by the chaotic interweaving of the branches behind it. Yet, it was clear it had a grotesquely slender human-like shape, like an emaciated scarecrow. The fingers of the beast stretched out like thick needles, each one narrowing to a formidable tip. It almost appeared connected to the tree, like the two were one. Susan had never been able to empathize with an ant until she was in the presence of this awesome and terrifying being.
What was presumably the beast’s head tilted in Susan’s direction. Suddenly, a pleasing hum reverberated in the front of her skull like a struck tuning fork. Her eyes began to lie. She was no longer in the church, she was in the clouds. Something carried her through the billowing mists and glided her down toward what she thought was the earth. But, this was not the earth she knew. The ground was scorched and bubbling. Writhing on its surface were strange, malformed creatures, reminding her of the premature birth she saw in sex ed.
Her hand stopped working. The candle dropped. It landed on Matthew’s sheet and the flame was eager to spread.
As the fire grew, Susan fell back into her body, back into the church. A scream broke free of her throat that would have given any alarm system a run for its money. Everyone in the room jolted awake, including Matthew, who quickly folded his sheet onto itself to smother the flames.
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