The Last Harvest

by Kim Liggett

  As I’m leaning over trying to gather the shattered glass, I see a small tear in the photo, exposing something beneath … a glimpse of handwriting. I break out the rest of the glass, peeling back the photograph to reveal an old tattered document, with a torn edge, bearing the signatures of the founding families. It’s the missing page. The missing piece of the prophecy.

  On this day, we form a covenant to protect, serve, and honor our lord. In exchange for these parcels of land we hereby pledge our sixth generation to usher in a new age. Once the seed has been selected, once the blood of the golden calf has been spilled, there will be ten sacrifices. Only the chosen one will be allowed to care for our lord.

  “It’s true.” I inhale sharply. “All of it. They sold our souls for land,” I say to Ali, but it’s like she’s looking right through me. “Did you hear me?”

  “We can talk about that later.” Ali kneels on the bench, her bare skin glistening in the candlelight. “Come back to me.”

  Something’s off. Something’s very wrong … with her … with this place. “I … I need to get out of here.” I shove the piece of paper in my pocket and frantically start pressing on the paneled wall until the door pops open.

  I can’t look back, I can’t hesitate, or I know I’ll never be able to leave this room. As I careen up the stairs, every cell in my body screams at me to go back, but I keep pressing forward.

  As I stagger into the hallway, I hear whispering. I move toward the sound. It’s coming from Mr. Neely’s office. I place my hand on the doorknob, afraid to open it … afraid not to.

  The whispering stops, but I hear the unmistakable susurration of breath. Pressing down on the cold brass handle, I nudge the door open.

  The room is full of people dressed in long glittery gowns and tuxedos, martinis in hand. They’re all staring back at me, but no one moves a muscle. I’m wondering if they’re wax figures or mannequins, until one of them speaks.

  “Do something, Ian,” a woman says through her teeth. It’s Mrs. Neely.

  My eyes dart around the room. Mr. and Mrs. Miller are here, Mr. and Mrs. Doogan, Mr. and Mrs. Gillman, Dr. and Mrs. Perry … all the parents of the sixth generation are present—except for mine.

  “What are you doing here? What’s going on?” I pant.

  I look past them to a television screen set up on Ian’s desk. There’s a half-naked girl lying on a bench. It takes me a good minute to realize it’s Ali on the screen … in the secret room. I stare at each and every one of them in disbelief. These sick fucks have been watching us the entire time. A wave of dizziness washes over me. I grasp onto the edge of the desk to keep my balance, when I notice what’s in front of the screen. On a swath of black velvet, there’s a branding iron. The symbol on the end is plain as day—the upside-down U with two dots above and below. The invitation. Were they planning on using that thing on me? Was Ali in on it? Or did they use her to lure me here? I grasp on to the handle.

  “Clay, everything’s fine,” Mr. Neely says as he steps forward. “But I think you’ve lost your way. Let me show you back to Ali.”

  “Stay away from me!” I swipe the metal rod in front of me.

  Mr. Neely holds out his arm, motioning for the others to stay back.

  I lash the iron through the air, again and again, as I work my way to the door.

  Stumbling down the front steps, I drop the branding iron.

  I jump to my feet, ready to fight, but they just stand there in the doorway, like I’m some kind of curiosity.

  “But, Ian…” Mrs. Neely says.

  “All in good time.” He smiles. “And Clay Tate’s time is running out.”

  46

  I RUN as fast as I can down Main Street, but my legs aren’t working right. Who am I kidding? My brain’s not working right. Cars are honking, people are calling out my number. The lights are too bright, the clouds are moving in way too fast.

  “Fuck!” I scream as I stare back at the Preservation Society.

  I have to find Miss Granger. I might be crazy, I might be drugged, but I know what I saw. I know what I felt. And that was real. They were going to brand me.

  I slap myself as hard as I can, trying to jolt myself out of this haze, but I can still feel Ali on my skin, in my hair, on my mouth. Everything is pulling me back to her, but I can’t give in to this—whatever this is. I have to hang on until Miss Granger can tell me what the hell’s happening … so she can fix this.

  I wipe my sleeve across my face and cut through some yards to get to Pine Street.

  Dogs are barking, televisions blaring, I almost get taken out by a clothesline, but I find my way to her front door.

  I start banging. I don’t care who sees me. I don’t stop until I notice the red streak smeared across the dark wood.

  Staring down in fascination at my bloody knuckles, I can hardly feel a thing. God only knows what was in that rye.

  Miss Granger cracks the door open. “Clay, what are you doing here?” she asks warily.

  “You have to help me,” I plead. “I was at the Preservation Society with Ali … we were alone, or I thought we were alone, but I think they drugged us and they were watching … they were watching us—”

  “Watching you what?” she asks as she pulls me inside. “What were you doing with Ali?” She grabs my shoulders.

  “Watching us…” I break away from her, peeking through the curtains, making sure they didn’t follow me here. “I can’t believe what just happened … what almost happened.”

  Miss Granger sinks to the edge of the coffee table, like she already knows what I’m going to say.

  “Ali took me to the secret room … the real secret room. We had a few drinks … we were kissing and stuff, and she whispered, ‘blessed be the seed.’ She tried to cover it up, but I know what I heard. I went upstairs and I found Ian Neely and all the Preservation Society having some kind of cocktail party while they watched us on a screen. And they had the branding iron out. I saw the mark. And I found this.” With trembling hands, I pull out the piece of paper and give it to her.

  “Our ancestors … they sold our souls to the Devil to get the land. The sixth generation … it’s all right there. Ten will be sacrificed and only one will be able to lay hands on the lord, to care for him, usher in a new age. And something about the seed … what does that even mean?”

  I look up at the wall, trying to piece together the information, but it’s empty. All of the documents have been removed and there’s a fresh coat of paint. I start looking around the room in a panic when I notice a small suitcase by the door.

  “You’re leaving?” I ask, feeling short of breath. “You can’t leave. Not now. I know I said some terrible things. I didn’t believe you and I’m so sorry, but please don’t leave. I need you to fix this. I need you to save her. I’ll do anything you ask.”

  “I’m sorry I involved you in this,” she says, shaking her head. “It was reckless on my part. You don’t bear the mark. It’s not you.”

  “But Lee doesn’t have it either.”

  “Not anymore.” She gives me a pointed stare and I understand everything. The mark was erased in that explosion, covered up by scar tissue and pain. It was him all along.

  “I know you feel bad for your friends, but there’s no way you could’ve stopped this. You must believe me. The Devil is more powerful than you can ever imagine and he’s growing more powerful by the second. That’s why I’m going to All Saints tonight to prepare for the exorcism.”

  “But you’ll be back, right?”

  She reaches out, brushing her hand against my cheek. “There’s something I need to show you.” She pulls the photo album out, turning to the articles about Mexico City. TWO MISSIONARIES AND FIVE CHILDREN FOUND DEAD AFTER BRUTAL ATTACK AT THE CHURCH OF GRACE. “Do you remember me telling you about the last case in 1999?”

  I nod, wondering where she’s going with this.

  She turns to the autopsy photos. “The missionaries … they were my parents.” She brushes her finger
s over the photographs. “They were demonologists. They performed exorcisms. This was their last case.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, remembering the photo from her nightstand. I can’t believe I didn’t put it together.

  “The Church took me in, allowed me to continue their work. My parents gave their lives to save the sixth child,” she says as she takes her hair out of the tight knot and pulls it over to the side to reveal some kind of scar.

  “The sixth child was me,” she says. Taking my hand, she places it against the brand. I’d know that symbol anywhere. “So, I could never leave this behind, even if I wanted to. Avenging my parents’ death, defeating the Devil, is my life’s work.”

  It feels strange touching her this way, almost too intimate. I pull my hand away.

  “So there’s hope for Ali.” I clear my throat. “You can save her.”

  She lets out a gentle sigh, twisting her hair back into the knot. “You’re too good, Clay.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I think the Devil underestimated your resolve, but together, we can finish this.”

  “How?”

  “The exorcism. I’ll return on Saturday to assist the priests that evening at the breeding barn.”

  “Shouldn’t they do it somewhere holy? A place of God?” I ask.

  “We need to hit the Devil where he lives.”

  “I’m sorry I doubted you,” I say. “I’m sorry I yelled at you like that. I had no right and I’m—”

  “I’m sorry I gave you reason to doubt. This has been hard for me, too.”

  I can’t even imagine how this might be affecting her. It’s probably like déjà vu with Mexico City. Losing her parents like that.

  “What can I do to help?”

  “There’s still time. You can watch over Ali, protect her.”

  “But how can I protect her when I can’t even be around her without…”

  “Without what?” she presses.

  “When I’m around her … I feel like I can’t control myself,” I say, dragging my fingers through my hair. “And it’s only getting worse.”

  “Then stop trying.”

  “What?” My muscles tense. “How can you say that after everything I’ve told you?”

  “She’s still Ali. The girl that you love. She doesn’t understand what’s happening to her. Something catastrophic is going on here. I will do my absolute best to save her, but we have no idea how this will end … how much time we have left on God’s good earth. Or if she’ll even make it out of the exorcism. You saw what happened to my parents. It’s a natural human instinct to want to be close to the ones we love. God won’t judge you for that.”

  “I can’t.” I shake my head.

  “Then promise me something,” she says, her tone determined and serious. “As soon as Ali’s free of this … clean … don’t waste another moment. If I bring her back to you, tell her you love her, that you can’t live without her. Give yourself to her before it’s too late.”

  “I promise,” I say, feeling a blush creep up my neck at the thought.

  I don’t know what to do here … give her a hug, a peck on the cheek. Instead, I reach out and squeeze her hand.

  “Godspeed,” I say.

  She looks up at me with a surprised smile. “Yes, exactly. Godspeed.”

  I’m opening the door to leave when she says, “Oh, and Clay? About the game. Win. I don’t want to come back to find they’ve sent a lynch mob after you.”

  * * *

  WHEN I go back for my truck, the Preservation Society is dark and the cars are gone. I turn on my phone to find a text from Ali.

  Did you get lost? Haha. That rye was strong! I waited, but had to go home. Big game tomorrow. Hope you’re in bed having sweet dreams … about me.;) Night

  Miss Granger’s right. Ali has no idea what’s happening to her. In a way, I’m glad. I hope she never has to know the horror of what our ancestors have done to us.

  47

  THE HOUSE is dark, darker than it should be at nine. Noodle’s not at the door waiting for me, which is odd.

  As I slip off my boots, I hear whispering coming from the living room.

  “Noodle?” I call out.

  The whispering stops. There’s a long, uneasy pause.

  “Hello,” I call again.

  “She’s not here,” Mom answers in a low monotone.

  “What do you mean she’s not here?”

  I’m almost afraid to peek my head in the living room, afraid of what I might find. But Mom’s just sitting on the sofa, never once taking her eyes off the wall above the mantel … off the flies. They’re back and they’ve somehow doubled in number, as if out of spite.

  “She said she was helping you.”

  “Helping me?” I rack my brain, trying to figure out what she means, but Mom’s already glossed over.

  “Noodle?” I call out as I go in the kitchen. It looks like all the food from the cabinet has been emptied onto the table next to the casserole dish. Potpie night.

  Damn it. I forgot the groceries.

  And then I remember last night. While we were eating pancakes, I told her she could help me with the harvest after school.

  “The wheat,” I whisper, acid rising in my throat.

  Racing out the door, I push through the crops, the cold air smacking against my lungs.

  The combine. What if she tried to do it by herself … what if she hurt herself, or couldn’t figure out how to stop it and went all the way to Harmon Lake?

  “Noodle,” I call out in a panic as the untilled wheat lashes against my arms.

  There’s a momentary break in the cloud cover, the moon revealing the top of the combine about a hundred feet to the west. My legs pump harder.

  When I reach the combine, the windows are all fogged up. I jerk the door open to find Noodle, curled up in the seat, clutching her fairy wand.

  “I knew you’d come.” She rubs her eyes groggily.

  “Thank God. Thank God you’re okay,” I say as I hold her, rocking her back and forth. I can count the number of times I’ve cried on one hand, but just the sight of her brings everything to the surface. If something happened to her, I’d never be able to forgive myself.

  “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I fell asleep on the job.”

  “I’m sorry,” I manage to choke out. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Is it okay if we call it a night? I’m cold.”

  “Yeah, it’s more than okay.” I push her hair back from her face so I can get a good look at her.

  She wants to walk, but I insist on carrying her back through the wheat. She feels so small in my arms. She’s so smart, such an old soul, that I think I forget how young she is sometimes.

  By the time we get to the house, she’s almost asleep again; she can hardly keep her eyes open.

  I don’t even bother getting her washed up. I just tuck her in, clothes and all. “Goodnight, fairy princess Tate,” I say as I pry the wand from her hand.

  “Jess is tucked in, too,” Noodle says as she closes her eyes and nuzzles into her pillow. “In a bed of moss just like a woodland fairy princess…” Her voice trails off and she’s asleep.

  I sit there thinking about all the things that could’ve happened to her out there and I can barely hold it together. There are two other people in this house and no one noticed she was missing all afternoon … all night. I know I said I’d give Jess time, but I can’t do this by myself anymore. I need help.

  “Jess…” I tap on her door, not wanting to wake Noodle. “We need to talk.”

  No response.

  “I know you’re in there. I can hear you breathing.”

  Nothing.

  “Look … I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

  I go to pound on her door, when it swings wide open, a gust of cold air rushing over me. The window’s open, her lace curtains blowing in and out … like breath.

  And no Jess.

  As I step inside the room to close the window, I bash into plates of
untouched food. That wretched doll is lying in the middle of the floor, wearing some kind of schoolgirl outfit. “Damn it, Jess!” I kick the doll across the room.

  I think of Lee with that pack of condoms and my blood turns to venom. Is that how he’s getting back at me? She doesn’t even know he’s her half brother. I feel sick to my stomach. I want to go out to the trailer park and drag her ass back here, but I know if I see Lee, I’ll kill him. That’s a fact.

  I tear downstairs to the phone in the kitchen and start dialing Miss Granger, but she’s on her way to All Saints right now and I don’t want anything interfering with that. The only other person I can think of is Sheriff Ely. Despite our differences, he’s a friend of the family. He cares about Jess. He’s the only person in this town who had the decency to tell me what’s going on right under my nose. He can probably track her down quicker than anyone.

  I dial his number.

  “Sheriff? It’s Clay Tate.”

  “Are you ready to talk now?” he replies.

  “No. It’s not that.” I keep my voice low, even though I know Mom’s gone to the world right now. “It’s Jess.” I swallow hard. “You were right. She’s not here. I think she might’ve run off with the Wiggins kid.”

  There’s a long pause. I hear Greg Tilford running his mouth in the background.

  “Tell you what?” Sheriff comes back on the line. “Why don’t I come on over and get the details.”

  I crane my neck to peek in the living room. “It’s really not a good time.”

  “This is Jess we’re talking about.”

  “You’re right.” I grit my teeth. “Just make it quick.”

  * * *

  I DO some dishes. Straighten up the best I can. I try to get Mom to move upstairs, but she refuses to leave the couch.

  I sit down next to her and take her hand, but it’s completely limp. I wonder if she even knows I’m here. “Jess ran off, but we’re going to find her, bring her back.”

  She doesn’t even blink. She just peers over my shoulder, her eyes fixed on the wall … on the flies.