Worship Me

by Craig Stewart

  To really believe it was impossible, so Angela became tormented by the impossibility. It was more natural for her mind to imagine herself dead than to endure a single day without Alex. She could pretend he was just out of sight somewhere, quietly reading one of his comics, but it would not bring him back into her arms, it would not refill her. What was lost was lost forever and time promised only to fester the wound.

  She tried to picture his face, but all she could see was him being dragged out of the sanctuary, his eyes reaching for her, his mouth screaming her name. It haunted her. Inevitably, he was blotted out by the swing of that heavy door.

  Then, gone. He was gone.

  Angela found herself tumbling down the stairs into the basement. She scarcely had care enough to shield her head from the pummeling steps. Fortunately, when she reached the bottom, her skull had not been cracked nor had her spine been broken, as much as she may have wished they were. The rest of her body, however, suffered plenty. At least the throbbing and burning that ached through every part of her made her mind feel at home.

  As she laid flat against the stone floor with her body and soul pulverized, she listened to the movement upstairs. The door to the basement was gently closed and locked tight. Similar, she thought, to the sound of a coffin’s hinges.

  The conspirators, those demons in the church, had the malice to murder her child, but not mercy enough to end her. Instead, they had only half-finished what they started and sealed her in her tomb still alive. She offered them no gratitude for this. On the contrary, she despised them for it.

  The dank, lightless basement contributed to the feeling of being in a grave. With no power feeding the lights, the only illumination came courtesy of the small trough windows, but that was fleeting.

  Her doleful attempts to breathe came and went. The gratuitous filling and emptying of her lungs was exhausting. All it did was help to preserve her. But, preserve for what? She no longer had an answer.

  Stiffness in her neck sparked a painful spasm and she tilted her head backwards to alleviate the strain. It was then, with her vision flipped upside-down, she saw the peeling door on the other side of the basement.

  The door’s existence had completely fallen from her memory, but as soon as she saw it, her original plan returned to greet her like a familiar friend. However, it was no longer an escape plan, it was now a rescue operation.

  Beyond the door’s rotting wood frame was the old stone stairwell, which climbed precariously to yet another door of similar decay that opened up into the field.

  If Angela got to her feet and carried herself to the door, maybe it wasn’t too late, maybe Alex could be saved. Maybe she would find him, wherever he was, and never let him go again.

  As she struggled to a standing position, her battered limbs wobbled as if they might collapse altogether. She stayed close to the wall and shook the dizziness from her head, all the while keeping her eyes concentrated on the flaking white paint of the door.

  Everything hurt. Even her stomach was still in knots over the crushing blow delivered by that brute, Michael.

  As she staggered across the open floor, she thought of her lost child condemned to wander alone, hounded by an unspeakable monster. His little legs would only last so long. She knew he needed her. The pain in her limbs was suddenly alleviated, chased away by a fresh injection of determination. The hatred she was keeping warm for her fellow congregation members, and even her own grief, had been temporarily postponed. She shed anything that might slow her down and keep her from finding Alex.

  The softened door buckled as she leaned against the wood. It was latched at both the top and bottom by two iron bars that secured it into the surrounding stone. With a great heave, she dislodged the rusted metal from its holding place and the door unsettled from its frame. She opened it carefully, wary its hinges might give way.

  Sour air spilled out all around her, filling her mouth with the taste of mildew.

  Time had reduced the stairs to crumbling rock, and Angela half-expected them to turn to dust when she took her first step. Surprisingly, she discovered it was dependably solid. The rest of the stairs were quickly conquered with a bounding stride.

  The second door was latched just like the first, only this time the metal was even more impossibly fused by rust. She had to utilize all her weight in order to free the bolts. Once she did, she kicked open the door without a second thought.

  A blackened field that spanned into oblivion opened up to her.

  Is my baby alone in all that darkness?

  There was no time to stand and gawk. A deep breath filled her with courage and she walked five feet into the field. The safety net of the church was no longer in reach.

  She anchored herself in the dirt and paid close attention to her senses. Smell and taste were useless, as was her sight. Her hearing, however, became her most valuable tool.

  Leaves rustled and the dirt of the field stirred mysteriously. The few trees that stood along the road rattled their branches together like the applause of skeletons. None of these sounds were going to lead to her son.

  Come on, Angela. Where is he? You’re his mother. You can do this. Find him! Before the beast! Find him, save him!

  A low thumping sound caught her attention. It was evenly paced, like footsteps. She held hope, that above all the other noises, these faint beats might be a boy running scared.

  “Alex!” she yelled. She knew if the Behemoth was not already aware of her, it was certainly aware of her now. But, she had to take that chance. She called again, “Alex, I’m here! Run to my voice!”

  The thumping stopped.

  She forgot to breathe as she waited for the next clue. The clatter from the branches to her left grew rowdy and muddied her soundscape. She worried that even if the footsteps returned, she may not be able to hear them. She plugged her left ear and took a few more steps into the field.

  In desperation, Angela prayed.

  God, whatever You are, wherever You are, help my son. He’s scared. He needs You. Show him the way back to his mother. Do this for me. Do it, or I swear I’ll destroy You. If you let him die, I promise You, I’ll dig my way out of Hell, and climb up to Heaven, and I’ll destroy You, somehow. And then You’ll know the fear of being alone in the dark. Just help him. Save him. I pray in Your name, You son of a bitch, I pray!

  Then suddenly, the piercing sound of a snapping tree trunk erupted from the din beside her. She turned left and discovered that the thumping had indeed come back, but it was definitely not Alex.

  Some prodigious entity was racing toward her at a tremendous speed, knocking through the trees of the Burward forest as it approached. Although she couldn’t see it, she could hear its towering form scraping past the highest branches. She recalled how tall those trees were in the light of day and shuddered at the sheer stature of the beast.

  Angela could feel the thumping in her knees. The colossal creature must have been free of the woods now, as the trees had silenced. It tore through the plains toward her with the force of a runaway train.

  Her primal instinct took over and Angela ran back to the church.

  The first door slammed shut with ease, but she had difficulty fastening the locks. She managed to jam her hand under the rusted latch and shoved it into place. In her haste, she didn’t feel how deeply the metal of the lock had sunk into her palm.

  She sprinted down the steps leaving a trail of blood tracing her descent.

  When she reached the bottom door, she stopped. The rumble from the beast’s advance had quieted. Maybe since she retreated to the church, it had lost interest in her.

  As she stared up at the lifeless door, the hole in her hand started to sting. She examined it. It was the size of her thumbnail, and just about as deep.

  The outer door buckled and cracked, then was ripped off its hinges and sent flying into the night; tossed as if it weighed nothing more than a Frisbee. Once the barrier had been broken, darkness poured down the stairs toward her.

  Quickly,
she closed the only remaining door between them and attempted to barricade it.

  She grabbed anything she could find. A flipped table served as the foundation, anchored into place by a heap of chairs. She didn’t stop until the door, itself, was completely hidden.

  From the other side of her barricade came horrible clawing sounds, as if the beast was digging through stone, burrowing its way toward her.

  It’s a monster. It’s a fucking monster. And my Alex, he was left out there with it. Maybe he hid. Maybe he’s hiding still. Maybe...

  She backed away from her barricade.

  The roar of shattered stone grew as broken rocks pummeled the barrier and shook a couple chairs loose.

  Angela couldn’t take her eyes off the trembling pile of furniture, which appeared to be seconds away from collapsing. If it gave way, she imagined the Behemoth would come crawling into the basement to collect her, as it had her son. With her attention elsewhere, an overturned chair caught her leg as she stepped backwards and she fell to the floor.

  She landed against the cement in a seated position, absorbing most of the hit with her lower back.

  After a few more chairs fell free from the barricade, Angela discovered a hole had been chewed through the centre of the door. The old wood around the opening was frayed and splintered like jagged teeth. From inside the door’s lopsided mouth peered a large, black eye outlined by a dusting of grey. After only a brief moment, the eye pulled back into obscurity, but remained clearly defined in her mind. It was the size of a basketball, and had stared at her like a cat would; intensely fixed, measuring when to strike. She was sure of one thing, she never wanted to be caught by its sight again.

  Angela kicked the chair free from her legs and readied herself to get back on her feet.

  Before she got the chance, however, four knife-like talons came twisting toward her. The beast managed to squeeze its hand through the hole and had lunged for its prey like the strike of a snake. Its huge arm easily spanned half the basement, but was just short of reaching her.

  A bloodcurdling scream carried Angela’s terror into the room as the talons swiped through the empty air in front of her. If they had been just a foot closer, they would have easily removed her head.

  The arm itself was thick and powerful from Angela’s perspective, but compared to the Behemoth’s size, it was a scrawny appendage. Its flesh was difficult to assess, as it appeared rough, like discoloured bark, yet was as malleable as her own skin.

  The beast’s largest claw, protruding from the tip of its middle finger, pierced her blouse and managed to pull her closer before tearing through the fabric altogether. Its pinky finger slashed at her belly, but could only scrape the surface. It was enough, however, to draw blood.

  Angela immediately moved her arms to protect the vulnerable softness of her stomach. This meant her hands and forearms now had to bear the brunt of the beast’s attack.

  Any part of her the Behemoth could reach was subjected to a cruel game of ticktacktoe, resembling the brutality displayed all over Rick’s body, only the patterns of her gashes were far less orderly. The pain set her skin on fire and cried out for her to act.

  She had to do something, or in mere moments she would be shredded to death.

  Her right arm abandoned its protective post, again leaving the bottom of her stomach open to the assault – a sacrifice she had to make to survive.

  Desperately, she forced her raw hand into the tightness of her pocket. Her jeans hugged the wounds on her knuckles and wrist, pulling the skin away from itself as she dug deeper. Eventually, through the pinching agony, she grabbed hold of Clara’s lighter.

  The Behemoth uncurled its index finger and placed the tip of its claw against the base of Angela’s neck. It was sharp enough that even with minimal pressure, it still easily broke her skin. The pulse in her jugular pumped rapidly against the prick of the heavy talon.

  She lifted the lighter and held it under the palm of the enormous hand. It took only one flick to bring forth its flame.

  In the presence of Clara’s reanimated fire, the beast halted its attack. Angela even felt the claw at her throat retract slightly.

  It’s scared. Is it scared?

  To test, she pressed the naked flame against the Behemoth’s skin.

  A dreadful growl bellowed out from behind the door and the entire arm instantly recoiled, sucking back through the hole from where it came with such force that it almost snapped the door in half.

  As suddenly as that, Angela was released.

  She kept the flame lit with her eyes on the door, waiting for the Behemoth to return. She found it hard to believe that a flame from a lighter could threaten a creature of such power. Yet, the beast had retreated.

  What kind of god is afraid of fire?

  It had run away like an animal would.

  What kind of god would fear like that, like an animal?

  She placed the lighter down in front of her and, in its protective glow, tended to her sores. To her relief, although the gashes ached, none of them were deep enough to claim her life just yet. With the loose material from her shirt, she cleaned up whatever blood had been shed and again thought of her son. Angela tortured herself with the notion that Alex had suffered the same lashings as she, only he had no flame to ward off the beast. Each cut was also his. Every pain was shared equally between them.

  She awoke from her dream that Alex had somehow survived in the open field; that delusion had been entirely dispelled.

  How could he survive a beast like that? How could anyone?

  The new horrible realization was that Alex had not only been killed, but had suffered a vicious, tearing, ripping, screaming death. She feared that the last thing the world offered him was agony.

  Angela had caught a vague glimpse of the congregation’s monster when it chased through the field after her. While running back to the church, she chanced one look behind her and out of all the features that might have caught her eye, she focused on the crusty organ that swung between its legs. Now that she had a moment to reflect on it, she assumed this meant it was male. Which also meant it was burdened with the needs of procreation. Despite all its dark miracles and bedazzlements, its body was biological. It was a member of a species, not the lord of one.

  There was no doubt in her mind the creature that terrorized her was no more a god than she was. In fact, she had done away with a notion of any god at all. There was no centre to this madness, no reason for the brutality. No plan or harmony, no watchful father or caring mother, no glorious purpose or righteousness. There was nothing but her and the other living things with which she shared her accidental life. And they had made the mistake of crossing her.

  Alex was gone. Gone? No, not gone. He was murdered, and someone or something was going to pay for it. Blood for blood, scream for scream.

  Angela’s mouth no longer tasted of bitter sadness, or the sour sting of grief. She tasted retribution, and it was sweet.

  CHAPTER 40

  The ungodly sounds that rattled up the old vents from the basement had hushed everyone in the sanctuary. Then suddenly, all was quiet. There was not a whisper alive to tarnish the delicate silence that followed.

  Each member looked to the other for answers, but there were none to be found.

  Eventually Tina asked, “What was that?”

  “I think it came from the basement,” said Gary, as if that detail offered some sort of comfort.

  “Is it gone now?” inquired another member.

  “Please, don’t fear,” reassured Dorothy. “We gave the Behemoth what it wanted, we will be spared.” She took her authoritative stance behind the pulpit.

  “You keep saying that, Dorothy, but how much longer are we going to have to wait here?” demanded Michael with his fists clenched. Because he was the one who had physically carried out the sacrifice, the strain of it had weighed on him more than most. He began to worry the child was put out to pasture for nothing.

  “We’ll wait for however long it
takes. The Behemoth will give us a sign.”

  “Maybe that was the sign!” Tina exclaimed.

  “Don’t be so eager, Tina. When it’s ready to set us free, we’ll know.”

  “What can we do in the meantime?” asked another voice.

  “We can pray,” Dorothy replied effortlessly. “Tina, grab the rest of the Christmas candles from the box by the window. Everyone gets a candle. I’ll light mine, and then pass the flame onto the next. The light will unify our prayers to the beast.”

  Tina did as she was told and passed out the partly melted candles to each member in the room. Normally, they were also given plastic safety cups to prevent the dripping wax from burning their hands, but that precaution was overlooked.

  Armed with misshapen candles, the congregation watched Dorothy ignite the first flame. Its dainty glow was a welcome release from the lingering shadows that steeped the room.

  Tina was first to receive the light and she passed it on to Gary. It spread like a wave from there until the entire room was set aglow by shimmering stars.

  As the flames approached Matthew, he started to feel a sickness in his stomach. His hand that clenched the candle became clammy and a building urge to vomit bubbled up within him. He asked himself, what could the passing flame represent but their guilt? What had they, as a congregation, have to pray about if not forgiveness for the cardinal sins they committed? Matthew had remained silent during Alex’s sacrifice, but he was bewitched then. The promise of Chris’ resurrection had been dangled in front of his face, and now he didn’t know what to believe. Could the Behemoth really reunite him with his love, or had Matthew been duped into sanctioning a child’s murder? He couldn’t answer, and so he refused the flame.

  “It was a mistake,” came a quiet voice from out of the crowd.

  Matthew perked up when he heard the sentiment spoken aloud. It was as if his thoughts had voiced themselves. He looked around the room eagerly to see who shared his doubts and noticed that Susan was just as anxious to figure out who the speaker was. Both of them were surprised when Emily tossed her candle to the ground in protest.