The Hallowed Ones tho-1

by Laura Bickle

“Herr Stoltz, come quick,” he panted.

  “What is the matter?”

  “There’s been murder . . . not just murder . . . a slaughter.” He shook his head, as if to clear it, his eyes squeezed shut.

  “Where?” The Hexenmeister reached for his hat.

  “The Hersberger house.”

  * * *

  There had never been a murder in our community.

  Never. Not in all the time that I had lived there. Not in all the time that my parents had lived here, or my grandparents. Not ever.

  We were simply not capable of it.

  I rode in the back of a buggy with the Hexenmeister and the man who’d raised the alarm in front, driving. He refused to speak of what he’d seen, despite our prodding. He just sat and sweated.

  I saw Herr Stoltz slip a parchment envelope into his jacket pocket.

  I asked him: “Is that—?”

  He nodded and whispered, “This old man won’t go anywhere unarmed these days.”

  I grasped his sleeve. I was glad that the Hexenmeister was protecting himself. He could be our only hope.

  The buggy stopped in front of the Hersberger house and I climbed out with trepidation. There were already a half-dozen people whispering in the yard. The Elders had not yet arrived.

  The crowd parted for the Hexenmeister. It seemed as if, in their fear, they recognized some of his ancient authority. He stumped up the porch, paused before the door. His hand pressed to his chest, he recited the Lord’s Prayer.

  I shied away, stepping down to stay with the rest of the Plain folk.

  Herr Stoltz grasped my arm. “No, Katie. You come with me. I will need your help.”

  I nodded, my mouth dry.

  He pushed open the door.

  I smelled blood, immediately, and my stomach churned. Bile filled the back of my throat, and I vomited on the front step.

  The Hexenmeister waited patiently for me, motioned for me to cross the threshold behind him.

  “Gott in Himmel,” he whispered.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I did not know that the human body could hold so much blood. I suppose that I must have had some concept of it. I helped on those weekends when pigs and cows were butchered in the spring and fall, watched as the blood drained from them into buckets. But that was outdoors, not in a confined space. And we only butchered one or two at a time.

  Not a whole family.

  Lurid red blood smeared the walls and the overturned table and chairs. A body lay just over the threshold. I knew it was female, judging by the nightdress and the long blond hair. The Hexenmeister prodded the corpse with his cane, turned it over.

  It was Ruth. Her face was blank, rubbery, the eyes staring into nothingness. Her nightdress had been ripped open from neck to hem, and she was soaked in blood.

  I jammed my fist in my mouth. Some small part of me, in the deepest, darkest part of my mind, had wanted her gone. Maybe even dead. But not like this.

  “That one,” the Hexenmeister said, “that one let the Darkness into the house.”

  I thought back to the seductive call I’d heard in the moonlight. I shivered.

  Herr Stoltz stumped forward. The second body, the father, and the third, the oldest brother, were sprawled on the kitchen floor. Their heads were merely bloody pulp. A hunting rifle lay in the grip of the father. The Hexenmeister leaned on his cane. “I expect these two heard the commotion, came running . . .” His gaze slid upstairs, to the bedrooms.

  My eyes widened. Ruth had a mother and four sisters.

  The Hexenmeister sighed, trod heavily toward the steps. I followed him upstairs, clutching the oak railing. I could see on the wall that there were faint streaks of blood, as if someone had let their fingers trail along the wall. I shuddered, imagining the pale vampires slipping up the steps in the dark, knowing that their terrified victims were trapped on the second floor with nowhere to run. Cornered.

  The Hexenmeister turned to the first bedroom. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open with his cane.

  This was the parents’ bedroom. Ruth’s mother was impaled on the nearest bedpost of the four-poster bed. She seemed to be suspended in space, her back turned at an impossible angle and her chest torn out. I could see the white fingers of her ribs reaching toward the ceiling. Blood had poured down the bedpost, making a puddle on the floor. Where her arms were splayed out, I could see chew marks on her wrists.

  I covered my mouth with my hand.

  Herr Stoltz crossed the hall, to the girls’ room. I crept behind in his shadow, terrified to look. But I knew that he would not shield me from the sight of violence. The door was open, and I glanced over his shoulder.

  The ceiling was red. Red and dripping and turning brown.

  I gasped and turned away, shaking.

  The Hexenmeister heard that hitch in my voice. He turned to me, gripping my shoulder with the ironlike claw of his hand.

  “Katie,” he hissed. “You must be strong. There is hard work to do.”

  I blinked at him stupidly.

  “Katie. We must stop the spread of the Darkness, keep this family from rising as Dark.”

  “How?”

  “In my grandfather’s days, they would have stuffed the mouths of the dead with garlic, cut off their heads, staked their hearts.”

  I recoiled in horror, but that brutality seemed tame in light of what I’d just seen.

  The old man’s gaze scraped the red ceiling in the room beyond. “But, in this case, fire might be best.”

  “Fire?” I echoed.

  “Get some of the men hanging around outside. Tell them to bring me kerosene and matches.” He peered into the red room, made a noise. “Lots of kerosene.”

  I was only too grateful to have the opportunity to flee. I rushed down the stairs to the front door, lurched into fresh air. I was surrounded by dark skirts and legs as I heaved what remained of my breakfast into the grass.

  “Kerosene,” I panted. “And matches. Herr Stoltz needs kerosene.”

  But no one moved away to gather them. The throng parted, murmuring, as the Elders flew through the yard. In spite of myself, I shrank back from them.

  “There will be no kerosene,” the Bishop said, loud enough for all to hear. “There will be no fire.”

  The Hexenmeister stood in the doorway. His milky eyes seethed. “The Darkness is here. It must not spread. We must burn the bodies.”

  The Elders climbed the porch, sidestepping my vomit.

  “You spread the hysteria of the Outside world. You know better,” the Bishop growled at him.

  The Hexenmeister stepped back, waved his arm to usher him into the house. “Then come see for yourself.” He looked out over the crowd. “All of you. Come see.”

  No one in the crowd moved. The Bishop’s eyes narrowed, and he marched past the old man. The other Elders flocked after him. I saw one cross the threshold, then stop. He did not progress farther.

  “They are here. Vampires,” the Hexenmeister announced.

  The throng chattered among themselves.

  “But we are protected!” someone shouted.

  The Hexenmeister shook his head. “Not any longer. We must protect ourselves.”

  The Bishop stalked out of the house. I noticed that he was pale, very pale. But he and the other Elders did a better job of controlling their breakfast than I did. One still remained on the threshold, frozen, with his back turned to the crowd. The Bishop pushed past him.

  “This is a terrible loss,” the Bishop shouted at the simmering crowd. “But it is a result of human evil. Human violence. Not vampires or some ephemeral Darkness . . .”

  “You must burn them,” the Hexenmeister insisted, jabbing a bony finger at him. “They are contaminated, and it will spread. You and your pious sensibilities are damning us to death.”

  “No,” the Bishop thundered. Spittle flecked his trembling lip. “They will be granted a decent burial, not burned like . . . like cattle. We are not animals. We have been chosen by God to survive. And
we will not disintegrate into savages and fall into the fantasies of the Outside.”

  The Bishop glowered at the Hexenmeister. “There will be a funeral. Tomorrow, at noon.”

  He turned his glare on the crowd. “And you shall do as the Lord has instructed you to do for funerals. The men here shall wash and prepare the men, and the women shall attend to the women.”

  The throng visibly shrank back. Some of the Elders looked pale and doubtful, but they nodded in support.

  “Remember Gelassenheit. Remember the will and the love of God. Be strong in your faith, even in the face of tragedy. Obey and be saved.”

  The Hexenmeister spat. “Faith is one thing. Survival is another.”

  The Bishop whirled on him. His voice was low, but I could hear it: “One more word from you, old man, and I will have you shunned, cast out into your own darkness.”

  The Hexenmeister watched with a level gaze as the Elders moved down the porch steps toward the gate. One Elder remained behind, still facing the interior of the house.

  “I don’t understand,” I whispered. “Why can’t they see—?”

  The Hexenmeister interrupted me. “They won’t see. They are a prideful lot, whether or not they choose to admit it. And the Bishop loves power. He’ll love it to the very end.”

  Heads lowered, the men and women in the yard moved toward the house to accomplish the grim task of preparing the dead. The Hexenmeister gripped my wrist. “Find some garlic and stuff it into the mouths of the women, if you can.”

  “And then what?” I dreaded the answer.

  “Then you and your young man meet me back here before sunset.” The old man pursed his wrinkly mouth. “I’ll bring the kerosene.”

  * * *

  I scurried into the kitchen, unable to breathe. I opened up the window, let the breeze push the drapes aside. Behind me, above me, in the rest of the house, I could hear gasps and cries as those of us who had been assigned the unfortunate task of taking out the dead saw what had happened, what had become of our neighbors.

  I rifled through the cupboards for garlic, at last locating three splintering bulbs in the bottom of a potato sack. I stuffed the bulbs into my apron pockets, confident that no one would smell the garlic on me above the hideous copper stench that clung to the walls.

  I minced around the first floor, opening windows. I kept my back to the bodies. Many of the women and even some of the men fled the house in tears, unable to contemplate the job. Eventually, the Elder who had been frozen in the doorway was shoved to the side. He moved out onto the porch, where he began to pray.

  I took a deep breath and walked toward Ruth, where she lay on the floor. I stared at her for a long time, overwhelmed by the task before me. I had been to funerals. I had helped prepare my grandmother for burial. I’d washed her with soap and water, lovingly dressed her and set her out on a table with my mother’s help. But this . . . this was too much. I didn’t know where to start.

  “It’s all right, dear.”

  A woman in her sixties stood beside me, Frau Gerlach, the midwife. I had always thought her to be somewhat uptight and disapproving. She always seemed to scowl. But I realized that she and I were the only women remaining in the house. I dimly remembered that her husband had been a butcher.

  Frau Gerlach nodded to herself. “Let’s take her to the spring room. You grab her head and shoulders; I’ll get her feet.”

  I crouched down beside Ruth, gingerly slipping my hands under her arms. Frau Gerlach grabbed her bare feet.

  “Lift.”

  As I heaved upward, an anguished howl emanated from the doorway. I looked up, half expecting to see that the lone remaining Elder had lost his mind.

  But it was Elijah. He stared in horror at the body in our arms, then at my face. He limped into the house, elbowed Frau Gerlach aside. Someone must have driven him here, against all good judgment . . .

  Frau Gerlach dropped Ruth’s feet. Her legs thudded to the floor and the body pitched to the left. A piece of intestine hit the floor with a wet smack. I struggled to lay her body back down, while Elijah tried to take her from me.

  “Elijah, no!” I shouted at him. “She’s dead. Leave her alone!”

  Elijah sobbed unintelligibly. I felt a short pang of sympathy for him.

  Frau Gerlach shouted into the yard for some men who were able to stomach handling the living. Two men dragged Elijah from the house, kicking and yelling.

  I sank to my knees with Ruth’s heavy head in my lap.

  Frau Gerlach bent down beside me. “We can make quick work of this. I promise.”

  I nodded numbly. We picked up Ruth’s body again and descended down a short series of steps behind the kitchen to the spring room.

  The Hersberger spring room was larger than ours and more modern, with running water. We awkwardly wrestled the limp corpse into a bathtub. Dim light filtered in from a basement window that Frau Gerlach tugged open. She reached for a lantern, lit it, and I was instantly grateful for the warm yellow light it cast. I didn’t think that I could bear to be alone in the dark with Ruth’s body.

  “Now what?” I panted.

  Frau Gerlach stared at the dead girl. She fingered the shower curtain. “Find scissors. And a set of clothes for her.”

  I scurried to the laundry area of the spring room, popped open the lid of the gas dryer. I prayed to find some of Ruth’s clothes here. I did not want to go upstairs again.

  I found one of her dresses, an apron, and a bonnet in a laundry basket. I located a pair of shoes that looked like they might fit her beside the door upstairs and snatched some scissors from the kitchen. I did not make eye contact with the two men who were staring at Ruth’s brother and Herr Hersberger with their hands in their pockets. The Hexenmeister stood with them. His hand was behind his back, and I saw garlic in it.

  I fled back downstairs to the spring room. Frau Gerlach took the scissors from me to cut the nightdress from Ruth’s body. She clucked as she looked at the dripping mess in her abdomen. She handed me the scissors and gestured to the shower curtain with her chin.

  “Cut that into two-foot-wide strips.”

  I ripped the shower curtain down, spread it out on the floor, and began to measure it out using my forearm. Frau Gerlach looked over my shoulder.

  “Very good. I’m going upstairs for some twine. I’ll be back.”

  Her footsteps receded, and I finished cutting the strips with my back to Ruth. I wasn’t ready to face her. Not yet.

  But I had to.

  I turned around, crept to the bathtub.

  Ruth lay like a gangly spider, sprawled on the porcelain. She was all legs and breasts, I noticed. Well, what wasn’t torn open by the vampires. Frau Gerlach had turned her so that the remaining blood trickled from her belly down the drain. She had closed the girl’s eyes. Her ruddy matted hair was stuck to one side of her head.

  I touched her forehead. I was sorry that I’d hated her. Truly sorry.

  I reached into my pocket, broke apart one of the garlic bulbs. I had only three, so I had to figure out a way to make this last. I plucked out three cloves, reached for her mouth.

  Awkwardly, I stuffed my fingers into her mouth to pry apart her teeth. My stomach turned when I heard something pop. But I ignored my nausea and jammed the cloves under her swollen tongue. I thought I heard a small hiss of air escaping as I did so.

  I shuddered, pulled my fingers back. I braced one hand on the top of her head, the other on her chin, and closed her jaws. I brushed away a small fragment of garlic at her lip, then let out a shaking breath. I wasn’t sure exactly what this was supposed to accomplish, but I was more than willing to obey the Hexenmeister.

  Frau Gerlach returned to the room with a spool of scratchy brown twine.

  “At least those men are useful for something,” she grumbled. “Ask them to do something that has nothing to do with blood, and they’re all over it.”

  I cracked a smile.

  She nodded at me. “Men are essentially useless for the d
ifficult things in life. For births and deaths, one clearheaded woman is more useful than a half-dozen men.”

  She knelt beside the body. “Go get me one of those strips from the shower curtain you cut.”

  I brought one to her. I had no idea what she intended.

  She blew a steel-gray piece of hair out of her eyes. “We’re going to pretend that she’s a package. We’re going to wrap the curtain around her to hold the insides in and tie it with twine.”

  I swallowed. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Get behind her at the back of the bathtub and prop her into a sitting position. I’ll need you to hold her arms up while I wrap.”

  It was easier said than done. Ruth was simply dead weight, and it was difficult to keep her upright. Frau Gerlach quickly wrapped her with the shower curtain from her armpits to her thighs, trying to stuff bits of her intestines back into the cavity. She then followed her tracks with the twine, tying very tightly to make sure that nothing escaped, as if Ruth were a rump roast.

  Then we washed her. Frau Gerlach was all business, scrubbing at the blood stains on Ruth’s skin with a sponge and soap. She didn’t fill the tub, not wanting to loosen the twine. I gingerly scrubbed at Ruth’s hair with shampoo, rinsing red from it under the tap.

  “Go ahead and scrub, girl. Ruth’s in no condition to mind.”

  But, despite the garlic, I wondered if she really did.

  We dragged Ruth out of the tub and awkwardly stuffed her into her dress. We were barely able to pin it shut over the bundle around her midsection, but we tried. Frau Gerlach tied Ruth’s shoes on her feet, while I tucked her soggy hair into a bonnet. I tried to do a decent job, make it look good.

  Not that it mattered. I knew that the Hexenmeister would see this house in flames before the night had fallen.

  We laid Ruth on the floor of the spring room, then went upstairs to turn our attention to her mother. Frau Gerlach harrumphed at the men still standing around, staring at the two dead men.

  We climbed the stairs to the parents’ bedroom. Frau Gerlach put her hands on her hips, contemplating the woman impaled on the bedpost.

  “Huh,” she said. “I think it would have been easier if they let the Hexenmeister burn the house.”