The Misunderstood and Other Misfit Horrors

by Jason Brannon

  When we reached our destination, it was unclear what we were supposed to see. The tunnel looked like all the rest, bearded with green slime and smelling like a septic tank. Although I hadn’t noticed it earlier, a heavy iron door was set into the back wall of the tunnel. Our leader opened it with a measurable display of effort and started down the rock steps that descended through the earth.

  I tried to remember the way we had come just in case I ever wanted to return at a later date. I couldn’t help thinking that this place would be perfect for some of the ideas that were slowly coming to mind.

  The steps petered out after about a hundred feet. The rock floor of the cavern had been polished smooth, although I couldn’t be sure if nature or the footsteps of man were responsible. The only blemish in the floor was a single gaping crack that ran from side to side, giving it the look of a plate that has been glued back together.

  “Over there,” someone said, directing their flashlight toward one corner of the cavern. “There’s a woman.”

  The girl was a beautiful blond that had been bound and gagged. Duct tape covered her mouth and thick lengths of hemp rope secured her ankles and wrists.

  “What’s the big idea?” someone from the group asked. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

  Our guide walked calmly over to the woman and hoisted her to her feet. He shoved her into a chair and slapped her hard across one cheek. The girl whimpered and a single tear rolled down her face.

  “Why did you do that?” one of the women in our group asked.

  “I did it because she likes it,” our guide replied. “And so will you. Think of her as your whipping post. Take our your frustrations on her. She won’t mind. Violence and torture are her vices.”

  “You want us to beat her up?” I asked, smiling in the dark.

  “Everybody has a person in their life that they would like to abuse. A boss. A cheating spouse. A backstabbing ex-friend. Whoever. Pretend that this girl is that person and give in to your anger for a few minutes. Katrina likes it rough. This will be pleasure for her. It will be a release for you. Make the most of it.”

  He started the event off by backhanding the girl, drawing the first thread of blood just over her left eye. “I feel better already,” he said.

  I thought that everyone was going to balk. That’s why it surprised me to see a petite brunette with spiked hair pull out a massive wad of Katrina’s hair and smack her once in the mouth. Katrina moaned once in pleasure. That was the only sign the rest of the group needed to set them into action.

  Relieved, I gave in to what the voices told me to do and Katrina loved me for it.

  When we were done, Katrina’s face was a swollen parody of her former beauty. Her eyes were squinty, and her nose poured blood. She seemed happy enough, and so were we.

  I was elected to be the leader the next night, and I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do. It was so much easier to be a follower. Leading took work and planning. But the events deep in the cave had really made me consider just how far people were willing to go in exchange for cooperation when it was their turn to lead.

  To make matters more complicated, I couldn’t blame any of the voices on the machines anymore. The machines weren’t the ones speaking to me. In fact, I was certain they never had.

  I called in sick at my job the following day and spent the afternoon wondering what kind of excursion I could devise. The night’s festivities needed to be exciting, a little bit dangerous, and quite possibly illegal. After spending several hours thinking, I came up with just the thing. Or rather the voices came up with it and I listened to them.

  Ever since that first walk I had wondered what possessed these people to follow their leader without regard to any sense of morality or legality. But the deeper I delved, the more I realized that this entire game was built on trust. That was what made it exciting, the Not Knowing. To put their fate into the hands of someone they didn’t even know was their form of exhilaration, of recreation. It was their way of getting high. These were the sorts of people who thrived on jumping out of airplanes, of bungee jumping, of eating rare and exotic foods, of getting in the car and driving with no clear destination in mind. These were thrill seekers searching for that new rush, and tonight they were expecting me to provide that.

  No one questioned me as we trudged along the highway that wound up to the cliff’s peak. Most of them had been there in the past when making out with old lovers in the backseat of a car.

  The cliff was deserted when we reached the top, but it was obvious from the looks on everyone’s faces that they were familiar with the place.

  No one questioned me as I handed out the blindfolds. “Put these on,” I told them.

  “What I want everyone to do is simple,” I said. “This little nighttime organization is built on trust and the possibility of a cheap thrill. It’s also based on following the leader. I want to see just how far you’ll take it. Basically, I want everyone to keep your blindfolds on and follow the sound of my voice.”

  There was a little bit of murmuring, but everyone participated. I led them in circles at first, winding in and out of the long rows of wild brush that flanked either side of the cliff. Once I was sure no one knew exactly where they were in relation to the cliff face, I chose a spot on an outcropping of rock and beckoned the group to me.

  Like lemmings, they followed. And like nighttime stars, they fell. Not one of them screamed.

  They lay there like that for a very long time. When I was sure none of them were still alive, I headed back home, feeling a little like Jim Jones or Koresh. These people had gone to their deaths because of something I told them to do. I felt like a god.

  I went home and went to sleep immediately. I didn’t dream. I didn’t toss and turn. In fact, I slept better than I have in quite a while. I was still drunk on power then.

  I woke up refreshed and invigorated and looking forward to the night’s festivities. The new leader might ask me to walk blindly off of the edge of a cliff to my death. That was what made this so exciting and what made me tingle every time I thought of the myriad possibilities.

  Whatever the case, I would follow willingly and do as I was told. I was prepared for anything now.

  I couldn’t wait until it was my turn to be leader again.

  Neither could the voices...

  Running Toward Eden

  The church was a quaint white building with a nice green lawn. It had the customary stained glass windows depicting the miracles of Christ, a small metal cross atop the steeple, and a gravel parking lot filled with assorted pickup trucks, dirty station wagons, and the standard fare of minivans. Organ music filtered from the open doors like warmth from an oven.

  A drooping apple tree knelt in the church's front yard like a sinner searching for redemption. Bruised and rotten fruit dotted the ground waiting for the birds to eat their fill. A little blonde girl sat on the steps with a bushel of apples from the tree, rolling them down slowly one at a time. Something was wrong with her. Retardation of some sort perhaps. A small unkempt cemetery flanked the sanctuary. A few of the graves were adorned with silk flowers. Most hadn't been attended to in years and were covered with weeds.

  All in all, it was a typical church, a thumbnail sketch that could have come from any of a dozen states in the Deep South. The only thing that wasn't typical of the scene was the fenced-in corral behind the church and the cages.

  Nobody really seemed to pay the corral much attention. They all knew what it was for, what it held. To them, it simply contained another facet of their religion, just as the cups they used for the Lord's Supper contained the symbolic blood of Christ. The symbolism, however, ended with the grape juice that filled those cups. What lived inside those cages behind the church was real. It was the source of true miracles.

  And a miracle, after all, was the one reason they came to the Church of the Crucified Nazarene in the first place.

  The crippled staggered up to the church, bracing themselves with crutches. The sic
k hobbled in, supported by members of their family. The blind walked uncertainly, hoping that the steps leading up to the sanctuary hadn't moved since the last time they came to be healed. Despite their infirmities, the needy all wore their masks of hope. For many of them, this was their last chance.

  "You're nervous," Becca said, clutching Connor's hand for reassurance.

  "Why wouldn't I be?" Connor said, pulling away. "I know what kind of things go on here." Without thinking about it, he massaged the lump in his cheek. At one time, the lump could have easily been a wad of tobacco. Not any more. Now it wasn't just something he could spit out and forget.

  "This is going to work. I promise," Becca said. "And I know this isn't the most conventional way to do things, but keep an open mind about it." Although it was clear by the look on her face that she was optimistic, the words themselves held just a little too much false hope for Connor's liking.

  He watched the parade of freaks march up the steps to the church and wondered if they were just as deluded as Becca. Surely, they all didn't think that God was going to miraculously heal them.

  "I don't think I want to do this after all," Connor said as they started up the steps.

  "This is a church of faith," Becca reminded him. "I've seen things here that you wouldn't believe. God can take that cancer away if you'll just let Him."

  "I'm not religious," Connor said. "Never have been. Why would I expect to waltz in here and be healed when there are devout believers who have spent years praying without result?"

  "Because I have faith even when you don't."

  "Places like this make me uncomfortable. I can't promise that I'm going to stick around once things get started. All those people shouting and clapping and speaking in tongues makes me feel weird."

  "Well, having your cheek rot off could be a lot more uncomfortable. Don't you think?"

  "I've got a question for you since you've got all the answers," Connor said as they took a seat at the rear of the church. "If faith is the key to healing, why aren't you healed? You've still got all that scar tissue, and it doesn’t seem to be going away. You may have all the faith in the world, but you still can’t have children."

  It was clear Becca didn't like the question but knew she had to answer. "God is not a genie who grants wishes," she said. "It's not that simple. Sometimes tests of faith aren't instantaneously rewarded. I'll be healed eventually. God won't let me down."

  "I couldn't have said it any better myself," a booming voice said from behind them.

  Connor turned and found himself staring at the tallest man he had ever seen. The man looked to be in his sixties with thinning white hair and deep set eyes that looked like bits of coal. There was a certain electric intensity about him that made him seem like one of the old prophets from the Bible. Moses perhaps. Or Abraham.

  "So this is the Connor I've heard so much about," the reverend observed. "Did he come to be healed? Or is he just curious about what we do here?"

  "I've got cancer," Connor said. "In my jaw. I guess that's what too much tobacco will do for you. I've been chewing since I was thirteen."

  "Be careful," Webster said. "Your sins will always find you out. The body is God's temple and should not be abused."

  "I'm sure you've haven’t always been a saint," Connor said defensively.

  "My sins aren't the ones in question here," Webster said. "You're the one whose transgressions have manifested themselves through affliction. But it doesn't matter. Whether you know it or not, you've come to the right place. Faith is what this church is built on, and soon the cages out back will be opened for your infirmity."

  “Care to elaborate?”

  "A doctor always goes to the source of an infection," Webster replied. "You wouldn't amputate an arm to save a leg, would you?"

  "I don't understand what you mean," Connor confessed.

  Reverend Webster smiled and shook his head knowingly. "Of course you don't. Let me try to put this in terms you can grasp. Man hasn't always sinned. There was a time in the beginning when men and women were perfect. This would be like a body being free of infection. Then the serpent tempted Eve, and the virus was released into the world. Your affliction is evidence that you've sinned. To rid you of the affliction we go to the heart of the sin. We go to the temptor himself and beseech him to take the temptation away. With that goes the sin and the sickness."

  "If you say so," Connor said, still puzzled.

  Reverend Webster nodded and checked his watch. "You'll see in a few minutes," he said.

  The chattering in the sanctuary was soon quieted by lush textured chores from a pipe organ.

  "Brothers and Sisters, I'm glad you're here," the Reverend said from the pulpit. "But even more, God's glad you are here. He's happy for an opportunity to manifest His power and show you that He's the supreme authority over everything, including death. God is a merciful and all-powerful God. But He's also a bit picky. Sin is an abomination to The Father, and He refuses to look upon it. That's where the distance between you and Heaven comes from. That's also why you've come here today. To rid yourself of sin and the physical manifestations of it."

  The room was a chorus of amens and hallelujahs set to the tune of “Victory in Jesus.” Connor glanced over at the woman seated at the organ and thought to himself that she was probably the most normal looking person in the room. Then he noticed that she was missing both legs from the knees down.

  "Is there a man among us who hasn't sinned?" Webster asked. "I think I can speak for every one of us when I say that we've all fallen short. Yet sometimes we take that for granted. We pass each other on the street and overlook the obvious afflictions that are outward manifestations of the wrongs we've committed. Sometimes it takes a newcomer to bring the truth full-center again."

  "No," Connor whispered as he realized what was coming.

  "Take this young man, for instance," Reverend Webster said, pointing at Connor. "He was a slave to tobacco, and now he has a tumor on his jaw. Pretty sufficient reminder, if you ask me. But has God not promised us that there is a chance for redemption? Has He not given us sufficient means to erase the past? I say that He has."

  On the reverend's cue, several rough looking farmer-types in bib overalls stepped out the side door of the sanctuary. Connor instinctively knew where they were going.

  The cages....

  Until now, he had only guessed at what was being kept there, but the return of the farmers confirmed his every fear. The snakes writhed in their hands, eager to strike.

  Connor didn't know much about snakes, but he knew enough to realize that they were poisonous and could very likely kill him with one bite.

  "Since the beginning of time," the reverend said, "the serpent has personified evil. By placing our faith in God, we can overcome that evil and control the hold it has over our lives."

  "I'm outta here," Connor said, rising up from the pew as one of the farmer-types held out a three-foot cottonmouth to him.

  "Take it, brother," he said. "Show God how much you believe in Him."

  "Get away from me with that thing," Connor stammered. "I'm afraid of snakes."

  "We're all afraid of something," Webster chimed in from the pulpit. "That's where having a strong set of beliefs comes in. Go ahead. Take the serpent. Grab evil by the throat. Trust that God will keep the snake from striking. That kind of faith is the only thing that will ever heal you."

  "Please," Becca pleaded. "Take it, Connor. Do it for us."

  Connor looked at Becca, saw the tears streaming down her face, and knew that she truly believed this was the way.

  "I'm not doing this," he maintained. “I’m sorry.”

  Becca's face hardened. Her eyes went cold. "Fine," she said. "Your cancer. Not mine."

  The fact that Connor had declined the serpents simply meant that there were more of them for the other fanatics in the congregation. The lady sitting behind them took a snake in each greedy hand and began to dance. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and the pins holding her tight
ly wrapped bun in place came loose, spilling her hair around her shoulders and down her curved back. The snakes squirmed in her tight-fisted grip.

  Connor backed away from her. "Let's go," he told Becca.

  "I'm not going anywhere," Becca said.

  Connor sighed. "You're riding with me, and I'm leaving."

  "I'll get a ride," Becca said.

  "Fine," Connor said as he slipped out of the pew. "Suit yourself."

  He barely got halfway down the aisle when two of the farmer-types that had helped bring in the snakes parked themselves in front of the doors. "You need God," one of them said. “And you’re not leaving until you find Him.”

  "Let me out," Connor said.

  No," the other said, pulling a Buck knife out of his overalls. "Not until this is done."

  Connor didn't want to start a fight that he knew he would lose. As calmly as he could manage under the circumstances, he found a seat on the back row and tried to quell his rising temper.

  Soon everyone, Becca included, was handling snakes. The church was a frenzied house of flailing limbs, fluttering eyelids, and angelic tongues. The steady percussive sound of rattlers provided a subtle backbeat to all of the chanting and strange words that were floating through the air like the feathers of fallen angels. Connor kept checking the door to see if Reverend Webster's thugs were still there. They were.

  "Brothers and Sisters," Reverend Webster shouted from the pulpit. "We face evil everyday in all its guises. Some of our trials are small and readily handled, like these serpents. Others aren't so small and require the force and prayers of a church like ours. Since the beginning of time, the world has been a battlefield of opposing forces. Good versus evil. God versus Satan. And why is this so? Why is this a problem for us? The answer is because we were born into sin. The root of our problem goes all the way back to the Garden of Eden where Eve was tempted."

  "Our sins can control us," Webster continued. "Or we can control them. Our sins are like these snakes. We can release our grip on them and hope they won't be a problem any longer. That's the exact moment they will come back to bite us and doom us to eternal hell. Or we can be proactive and kill the evil in our lives before it has a chance to ruin us. Faith, of course, is the key."