Worship Me

by Craig Stewart

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you can’t come with me. You have to stay here. You’re going to stay with Susan, alright? She’ll look after you until I get back. And I will be back.”

  “I don’t want you to leave.”

  “I don’t either, but I’ll only be gone a little while.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  CHAPTER 27

  In the centre of the mess hall stage, hidden behind its ragged curtains, Angela balanced herself on top of one of the hefty worktables.

  One of its loose legs wobbled as she stretched out and reached with her phone high into the air. She waved it back and forth in the hope that Chris was wrong and she might catch a precious signal. But, the bars remained empty. Fuck, she thought, shoving the useless phone back into her pocket.

  The only other option was to somehow sneak out of the church unnoticed, that is to say, not use the front door. There was a second entrance to the church through the basement, but Angela was not terribly keen on trying her luck there. The more she thought about it, the more she realized how poorly designed the church really was. True, it was an old building, predating most contemporary building codes, but it was as if no one had taken into consideration basic human safety. With only one easily accessible exit, the church was a firetrap waiting to happen.

  She could not pin her hope on the assumption that the Behemoth slept. Sleep was a thing for mortals, not gods – except the Bible did say God rested on the seventh day, Sunday. It was a pity today was Monday. No, judging from what she had witnessed, the Behemoth was always around, always aware.

  “Fuck.” Her thought came aloud.

  Then she noticed the stage floor was being tickled ever so faintly by natural light. If her eyes had not been cast down, she would have missed it.

  Angela jumped off the table with a loud thud.

  Burlap curtains hung from wiry strings secreted in the wings on either side of the stage. It was clear, judging by the darkness that crept out from under the hem of the burlap, there was no light to hide. There were a few props, mostly Christmas oriented, like Santa’s throne, cutout two-dimensional reindeer and garishly wrapped presents, sure, but nothing to produce the glow she saw.

  However, there was a thin sheet of fabric that dangled behind her that had no obvious purpose. Angela pulled it down and found a window about the size of a porthole. The sun beamed through as if she had just unearthed a secret, golden treasure.

  The modest window looked out on an obscure part of the field, which excited Angela. Even if the Behemoth were always watching, why would it be watching this wholly unremarkable side of the church? Its attention, she imagined, would be better spent on the front door and the sanctuary, leaving her a literal window of opportunity. From the limited view it offered her, Angela could see where the edge of the dirt parking lot faded into tilled soil. Her car was only a short run from there. If she could make it outside, she could be in her car and driving for help in less than twenty seconds, assuming her car was in a cooperative mood.

  She pressed her fingers against the dirty glass of the window and examined its edges. Dark blue paint had been poorly applied to its wood trim and clashed with the scheme of the rest of the stage. Most likely, it was painted to match its surroundings at some point, but had been forgotten, and now showed its age.

  Angela pushed on the bottom of the glass to see if it would open, but it didn’t budge. She was worried about having to smash the window, as that would definitely draw the beast’s attention. She pushed harder and the paint started to crack as the panel shifted its position. After a less timid shove, Angela dislodged it from its cradle with a satisfying Velcro sound. When it moved, it became clear the window was hinged in the centre and would only swing into a horizontal position that bisected the opening. Unfortunately, this did not allow enough space for Angela’s body to slip through.

  A fresh breeze, that carried with it the rejuvenating aromas of fall, rushed around the glass and into Angela’s face. Instantly, she found herself walking through a rested forest, charging through dry corn stalks and jumping into a pile of leaves. It was the smell of change, of a better time, one that she had taken for granted. It smelled like freedom.

  She stood there in rapture of the sensation. Without too much thought, she snuck her hand out through the opening of the window and paraded it about. Her limb waved joyfully in the air, intoxicated by the rays from the sun and the cooling touch of the wind. It was a good thirty seconds of bliss before she realized what she was doing.

  Her hand tensed up. Technically, she was outside, or at least part of her was, but there was no sign of the Behemoth.

  She placed her palm against the outer brick of the building and felt around its crevices. All the while she kept a watchful eye for any movement. At the first sign of something stirring, even if it was just a shadow, she was ready to pull her hand back inside.

  It became a game – how long could she keep her hand on the other side of the wall? After a minute, Angela came to the conclusion that the Behemoth was either gone, or didn’t care so long as she didn’t try to escape. It didn’t seem to be aware of her, but for all she knew, it could have been lying in wait just under the window. Maybe what she mistook for the fall wind was actually the beast’s breath, or maybe it had grown tired of the church and had left to terrorize the Davidson’s farmhouse down the road. The only way to find out would have been to make a run for it, but Angela had decided that was a fifty-fifty chance she did not want to take just yet.

  She retracted her arm and swung the window firmly back into place. Her shoes squeaked on the floor as she spun around and headed towards the curtains, back into the mess hall.

  Impossibly, the breeze came again, only this time, it was far less inviting. It spilled across her skin and through her hair like cold, greasy fingers and brought similar, yet tainted associations. She returned to the memory of jumping into a pile of leaves, only now the leaves were soggy and rotten.

  She stopped and checked to make sure the window was closed. It was.

  The invisible force returned and snaked around her ankles before rustling into the burlap curtains of the wings.

  The fabric drifted out, then slowly swayed back into place in a most enticing manner. It was as if someone had moved it with purpose.

  It had risen just enough for the curtains to part and allow Angela to peer between the slit that separated them. She saw nothing of interest, though light was scarce, before the wall of burlap became whole again.

  It swayed a second time, only without the aid of the breeze. The slit, for a brief moment, became a gaping hole. She only saw it for a second, but that was more than enough.

  From the shadows behind the curtain, Angela was greeted with a bighearted smile – Rick’s smile. His teeth were stained black, as were his lips and eyes, robbing him of whatever empathy Angela might have searched for. He was seated on the prop throne used for Santa during the Christmas concerts. Streams of his blood had defiled the chair, resulting in an ugly mixture of dark red and gold. Every scar on his body had been opened, and he wore his skin, in all its utter nakedness, like a shredded wrapping, pulled so tightly to his body that you could see the strain in every wound.

  The vision was so much to take in, and the time so brief, that Angela barely noticed he was holding something.

  Then the curtain fell back into place.

  Angela cursed her inquisitive impulses. As was true so many times in her life, she should have just kept walking.

  The curtains rippled like water, but not enough to give Angela another taste of what lay beneath, not that she wanted a second sampling. Still, the curious movements behind the burlap kept her eyes engaged as she stepped cautiously backwards, away from the wings.

  Her left foot came down in a puddle of liquid, but her attention was so focused on the curtains, she didn’t notice. After one more step, however, she bumped into something solid, like a wall, only warm.

>   Her eyes shot down. She was standing in a puddle of blood. Instinctively, her hand reached behind her. She touched hard flesh and whipped around to find that she was groping Rick’s slashed thigh. In a split second, she pulled back in disgust and vigorously wiped her hand clean of his blood.

  He stood, like an actor ready for his bow with his arms open to his adoring audience.

  Angela would have screamed if screaming had come naturally to her. When she was frightened, she usually found herself stricken with bewilderment – an equally useless, although quieter alternative to the standard hysteria.

  She took in the impressive carnage of his body, which although disturbing, she couldn’t help but appreciate how beautifully symmetrical it all was. The peeled wounds had made his skin raw. The dark puddle on the floor grew as impossible amounts of blood continued to pump forth. His ruby liquid escaped in thin, delicate drips from his lighter cuts and rolled down his overtly masculine form as if each droplet enjoyed touching him. Angela couldn’t quite explain it, but part of her enjoyed it, too, no matter how much she damned it. The sticky smile on his face seemed to know this about her, which made her feel even more naked than he was.

  Then, she looked at what he held in his hands; a frantically beating heart pulsated in the grip of his left, and in his right, a string of gleaming intestines so shiny, they appeared to have been glittered.

  He spoke to her, but not with the voice she was used to. It was soft, yet sent her stomach into turmoil, like the threat of distant thunder. As he shook the organs, he asked cordially, “Whose will they be?”

  She fought it, but the image of Alex’s torn open body cut into her mind. Her hands covered her face in an attempt to blot out the offense, but like a piece of exposed film, there was no removing what had been captured.

  Suddenly Rick’s arms were around her. He took hold of her by the throat and stomach, and pulled her backwards onto Santa’s throne where he sat her down on his lap.

  Angela, defying her own nature, motioned to scream.

  Before a sound could be uttered, Rick’s weighty hand closed over her mouth like a steel clamp. She thrashed against him, but it was like being squeezed by a steel rope. He didn’t budge when she tried to push herself off him, and he didn’t flinch when she kicked at his shins. Whatever he was about to do, she could not stop him.

  His free hand slid from her shoulder and followed the path of her collarbone down to the centre of her chest. Her heart, as if calling for him to stop, thumped faster and louder as his fingers snuck under the edge of her blouse and teased at the beginnings of her breast.

  By this time, the wetness from his bloody body had soaked through the back of her clothes and lathered the skin of her legs and buttocks. It was a slippery, but not completely uncomfortable, sensation. The damp fabric became like a second skin and soon it seemed as though it was just her flesh against his. He was hot, almost feverish. She could feel each sinew of his muscled stomach and groin tense as his powerful legs opened to her, inviting her to slip down between them.

  To her relief, he was not yet hard. This came as a surprise to her, having shared a bed with him for fifteen years, she knew him to be a desperately sexual animal. Normally, by the time she could get his pants off, he was already full-grown and would come flopping out just behind the zipper as if he was spring-loaded.

  His hand encased the entirety of her breast, but allowed her ripened nipple to squeeze out and be roughened between his two fingers.

  Angela grabbed at his invasive touch, but the more she tried to pull him away, the more he pleased her, and he knew exactly where and how to touch her body. In the past, she had resisted his advances on several occasions, but this was different. It was as if she had no choice.

  Her body began to revolt against every intellectual, spiritual and personal value she had tried painstakingly to uphold. This man, this creature, this demon, had violated her, beaten her, lied to her, threatened her life and the life of her child, but still her body wanted him. It ached for him, as if it would die without his touch, inside and out. Angela hated the sweat of excitement that formed around the base of her neck, the unconscious movement of her tongue and the itching tremble that ignited from deep within her. She hated each and every betrayal her body made. How could he still have such power over her?

  His hand released her breast then flowed down her stomach and into her pants. She gasped at the persistence of his digging fingers as if it was her first time. Her body involuntarily started to bend with pleasure under the force of his hands, which now held both pairs of her lips.

  Still, he was flaccid. If only as a distraction from her unwanted ecstasy, Angela started a line of questioning; if Rick was not doing this for himself, then why was he doing it?

  He violently pulled her head back, so his mouth was right next to her ear.

  “Follow me, baby,” he breathed. “I am the way.” With a tongue as black as oil, he licked the side of her face along her jaw line. She closed her eyes as this slug of a tongue wiggled down her neck.

  By the time she opened them again, she could remember how his tongue felt, but could no longer feel it. She took in some much needed air through her mouth and found no hand holding it closed. Gradually, she came to realize the hardness against her body was the seat of the throne and nothing more.

  With shameful tears poised at the cusps of her eyelids, she looked for a sign of Rick, but was surrounded only by dusty Christmas ornaments and tattered costumes. Her clothes were dry, and the pools of red were missing. Had she dreamt the entire thing? If she had, what kind of person was she to have such fantasies? Whether Rick was real or not real was beside the point. She had wanted him, and she had moaned for him.

  Her own powerlessness to withstand him dredged up every mistake she had made in her youth and every wrong path she had been forced to follow. The flesh is weak, and her weakness had been made blatantly clear.

  She thought herself disgusting, and her head dropped into her hands for the weeping to commence.

  CHAPTER 28

  “Your mom is gonna be tickled when she sees you ate that entire apple all by yourself,” said Susan with feigned excitement as Alex passed to her what was left of his meal. “You sure you don’t want any more?”

  Alex nodded his head. He was kneeling on the floor using the seat of the pew as his table. Susan sat next to him, trying to coax him into having a few more bites of bread.

  “It’s really good,” she tempted, “fresh, delicious and... bready.” In the art of persuasion, Susan was a novice. The only person she had convinced of the bread’s irresistibility was herself and she started to rip off a few chunks.

  “Will my mom be back soon?”

  “I’m sure she will, Alex. She said she’d only be gone ten minutes. So, until then, you’re stuck with me. But, that’s not so bad, right?”

  “I guess not.”

  “You could be stuck with Mrs. Rosenthal.” Susan whispered Emily’s name quietly enough so no one else in the sanctuary would hear.

  Alex subtly looked over in Emily’s direction. She was sitting near the pulpit with Michael, looking like a pile of frumpy gloom. The malaise was so thick about her, it was almost foggy. He had to agree, Susan was the better option.

  “So, you want to play a game or something?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Oh. Okay. What do you want to do then?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged.

  “We don’t just want to sit here, do we?” She ate another clump of bread.

  “We can. That’s all right.”

  “Won’t you get bored?”

  “No, I’m not scared.”

  Susan was taken aback by the response. She thought about its implications before she pointed out, “I didn’t say you were scared.”

  “My mom’s going to protect me. But, it’s okay if you’re scared. Maybe she can protect you, too.”

  “Um... thanks. But Alex, I didn’t say that I was scared, either. Where are you g
etting this?”

  “Last night.”

  “Last night...” Susan repeated. It was the last thing she wanted to think about and had pushed it far from her mind.

  “It saw you,” he said, nonchalantly.

  “What did you just say?” her mouth remained open with a half eaten piece of bread soaking inside.

  “It saw you, through the window.”

  “No. No, Alex, the window is stained-glass, you can’t see through it. What makes you think that?”

  “Cause it saw you.”

  “Stop saying it saw me,” her voice began to rise and drew the attention of the people around them. “It didn’t see me, it couldn’t have!”

  “Susan, is everything alright?” asked Tina, who had been eavesdropping even before the shouting.

  “What? Yes. Fine. It’s fine,” she said, obviously frazzled.

  “What’s wrong?” Tina asked. Her calculated sentimentality told her to place a hand on Susan’s shoulder.

  “There’s nothing wrong, we’re fine.”

  “People who are fine don’t usually shake like you are. Something rattled you. What was it?”

  Susan didn’t want to say, but it seemed the only way to escape from Tina’s trap of care.

  “He said that last night, the thing outside saw me.”

  “He? Alex said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he couldn’t possibly know that.”

  “He sounded sure.”

  “Alex,” Tina said, turning her attention to the innocent boy at the pew. “Did you wake up last night when Susan screamed?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then how would you know what the beast saw?”

  Alex shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s not nice to scare people, Alex,” Tina scolded.

  “I’m not trying to scare people.”

  “Then, why would you make something like that up? Something that would clearly frighten Susan?”

  “I didn’t make it up. It told me it liked her bright hair.”