“No,” Vera snapped, her voice stern. “There’s a lot you don’t know about TSC—”
“Like you know anything about us,” Samantha cut in, scratching her ear with nails chewed down to the little half-moons. Us. She said us. “If Maxwell’s mom is a believer, then he must know the truth. Death is natural and beautiful. You just need to open your arms and let the warmth of the next life embrace you. If you’re ready, and you sing from your heart, you’ll transition to a higher plane. That’s where my brother is now, and Maxwell’s dad.”
Vera was too late. She dropped her head into her hands, elbows on the table. That’s what Mr. Gonzalez said the day he lost his mind, not long before he died.
“It looks like general admission is only twenty-two dollars,” Chelsea jabbered, still feigning obliviousness as she booked their weekend plans.
What is going on?
“Sam.” Vera slapped the table. Chelsea lowered her phone, wincing as if she knew the truth that was coming and really didn’t want Vera to say it. Sorry, because this was long overdue. “I was going to phrase this more delicately, but I think I need to cut to the chase—you’re in a cult.” Vera paused, letting the words sink in. “TSC is not what you think. You’ve been brainwashed into worshipping death….”
Samantha’s blank eyes suddenly sparked with fire as they turned Vera’s way. She aggressively shook her head, chapped lips pursed to the side. “If by cult you mean a bunch of happy people working to be our best selves and refusing to ignore the truth of our existence—then yes.”
“Happy? You don’t look happy!” Vera pointed at the lavender bags under Sam’s eyes, and the protruding collarbones from what must have been significant and sudden weight loss. “This group isn’t about truth, it’s about death and darkness.”
“It’s about the great awakening!” Samantha tossed up her hands. “Your oppressive minds just refuse to let you see the wisdom of His teachings!”
Vera shot a look at Chelsea. “How long has she been this bad? What the hell?”
Vera knew her tone was accusatory, but by the looks of it, Samantha needed this intervention long ago.
“If I mention it, she just digs in deeper,” Chelsea murmured, eyes downcast like she couldn’t look at either of them.
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here! You’re the ones refusing to see the true path, and you will pay the price in this life and beyond.” Samantha stood up so fast, her chair tumbled to the ground behind her. She didn’t pick it up. “You’re both Oppressives.”
She turned her back, marching through rows of tables toward the cafeteria doors. Vera grabbed Chelsea’s wrist before she could storm after her girlfriend.
“This is worse than you think. The Sunshine Crew isn’t just kooky; they’re into some really dark shit. I can’t get into how bad it is right now, but you have got to keep Samantha away from them.” Vera’s eyes locked on her friend’s, hoping to convey her seriousness.
“How do you expect me to do that? She’s a grown woman and her mother is into it.” Chelsea yanked her hand away. “Every time I try to say something, she pulls further away from me and closer to them. And thanks to what you just did, I might have lost her forever. She’s cutting everyone out of her life who isn’t a part of that group.”
“Chelsea, those Grim Reaper statues and the Sunshine Crew, they’re connected.” Vera’s tone was heavy as she searched for whatever she could reveal without sounding like they needed garlic and silver bullets.
“How do you know that?” Chelsea’s tone was disbelieving.
“Well, I don’t have proof, but it’s true. And it’s a lot worse than you realize.”
“Well, thanks for your conspiracy theories, but I can get that crap online.” Chelsea jumped to her feet and collected her and Samantha’s untouched lunch trays. “If you want to shut down TSC, you need proof. Bring me that and we can go to the cops together. In the meantime, leave Samantha alone. If she pushes me away too, then she’ll be completely lost.”
Vera sighed, rubbing her temples. That was why Chelsea was trying to shut her up. Vera had made it worse. Her fingers pressed harder. She didn’t know how to deprogram a cult member. And she didn’t know how to help Max.
Suddenly, her phone vibrated on the table, rattling against the Formica—a phone call, not a text.
She flipped it over: Father Chuck.
The screen might as well have read: Last Resort.
“Hello,” Vera answered.
“I got your message. How soon can you get here?” the priest asked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Max
The priest wore faded blue jeans. Max didn’t know why that surprised him so much, but it did. He didn’t know what to think when Vera texted him. On one hand, finally, a priest! He’d seen The Exorcist; he knew what priests could do. On the other hand, he’d seen The Exorcist. Green bile, spinning heads, last rites.
His mother was already spewing smoke.
Max fidgeted in the scratched leather chair, bouncing his knee and rocking the rickety coffee table full of brochures ranging from “Learning the Bible” to “The Gay and Lesbian Catholic Group.” Vera said they were in the lounge of the rectory, which meant it was where Father Chuck lived. Max couldn’t get used to calling him that. Shouldn’t it be Father Whatever His Last Name Is? Though he didn’t really have much experience with Catholic priests—or rabbis, or ministers, or monks. Religion was something that fueled other people—the reason wars were fought, genocides were waged, and people were treated as “other.”
Even after the explosion, when Max was fed clichés about his dad being “in a better place” or “with the angels,” he pretended to believe and smiled politely. Because where else was he supposed to picture his father? Of course the man was in Heaven, some ubiquitous utopia with white puffy clouds and magical harps. He never considered the opposite. Hell didn’t cross his mind.
Now it did.
“I have soda, orange juice, water, or coffee,” the priest offered as he dug through a humming beige refrigerator.
“I’m okay.” Max’s knee bopped harder.
“I’ll have a water.” Vera sat on a matching leather chair, not meeting Max’s eyes.
She’d driven straight from the hospital to pick him up, and they hardly spoke the entire ride here. He didn’t know if it was because things didn’t go well with her friend, because she was sleepwalking last night, or because she spent the night wrapped around him on the couch. He really hoped it wasn’t the latter, because honestly, holding her was the only good moment he’d had in a very long time. He needed that memory.
“Well, I need some caffeine.” The priest cracked open a can of Coke as he strutted back in his cowboy boots.
He cleared a pile of newspapers and bulletins from the leather sofa, which was tufted with fat upholstered buttons, and sat down. His faded navy polo was untucked, and there was a stain that looked like coffee below his collar.
“You’re eyeing me funny.” The priest peered at Max.
Max shook his head, neck hot. “Sorry. I just, I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a priest out of uniform before.”
“Oh.” Father Chuck took a swig. “I used to wear the collar, but I find it turns people off.” His graying mustache twitched. “Only bums approach me when I wear the collar. And I’m a real person—I ride the bus. I don’t need that shit.”
Max’s eyes bugged, and he looked at Vera, who was suppressing a grin. She wasn’t kidding when she texted the priest might be “just rogue enough” to help.
“Father Chuck is from Texas,” she explained. “He moved up here to serve on Connecticut University’s campus.”
The school was fifteen minutes from Roaring Creek, and half their graduating class attended. They called it thirteenth grade.
“I was living every little boy’s dream down
there in Dallas. I was a cowboy on a ranch. Truth is, I wasn’t ready to leave. But I was convinced it would be good for the kids up here, and I ain’t sorry I did it. I met her folks.” He nodded at Vera. “They called this morning, right after you did. Filled me in.” His eyes flipped to Max. “Sorry about your mama.”
Over the course of seven years, Max had grown accustomed to people giving him condolences. He’d lost someone “that day,” and all of the victims of the tragedy were to be honored (#RememberTheCreek). But this was the first time anyone showed him pity for his mother, his currently living mother. He wasn’t sure what to say, but he figured there probably weren’t any “right” words for this situation.
“Give it to me straight—how bad is it?” The priest looked at Vera.
“I don’t have the same frame of reference as you and my parents do, but”—Vera hedged—“something’s inside her. It’s taken over, and there’s a shrine.”
“I heard. Ain’t the first time I heard about it, neither. I’ve seen the shrine, in cars, store windows—”
“The florist?” Vera asked, trying to be subtle.
Max was more straightforward. “Vera thinks it could be connected to the Durands and the Sunshine Crew.”
“I reckon that’s likely. I got thrown off when I saw it at the Mexican restaurant up there on Willow. Thought it was Santa Muerte.”
Vera nodded. Max’s eyes flicked between the two of them; their mutual understanding had him feeling like he’d missed the required Catholic reading. Father Chuck eyed his confusion.
“Santa Muerte’s a folk religion down in Mexico. Church has hated it since the get-go, even blames it for the rise in demonic possession, but I think they just don’t like it taking away the parishioners.” He made grabby hands as he let out a chuckle. “Santa Muerte appeals to the poor folk, you see, the marginalized, the incarcerated. Folks who feel left behind by society, so they’re lookin’ elsewhere for a little help.”
“But this isn’t Santa Muerte,” Vera confirmed.
“No, don’t seem like it is.” He pulled a smartphone from his back pocket and showed them an image—a feminine white skeleton was displayed holding a scythe and crystal globe. Around her neck and wrists were colorful strings of beads, and she wore a bright cherry robe embroidered with a rainbow of flowers pulled high over her skull. It looked like a female Grim Reaper dressed for a festive Mexican wedding.
“This what you saw?” Father Chuck’s mustache pressed to the side.
Max shook his head no. So did Vera.
“Our idol’s all white,” Vera noted.
“With wings and a torch,” Max added.
“And it’s weeping black tears.”
“Exactly. Santa Muerte ain’t got wings. And the black tears…” The priest shivered. “I should have known better—the Bony Lady’s big in Texas. Folks pray to her for healing, protection, and safe passage to the afterlife. They don’t pray to her because they want to die, or because death is better. Whatever idol is ripping through our town is much…darker.” The priest set his phone on the table. His lock screen was an image of horses grazing that was so serene, Max wished he could cross an electronic force field and step inside it.
“Did my mom tell you about Chicago?” Vera asked, her voice small. “About the shrine and the cult there?”
What? Max’s eyes flung toward her. She’d been quiet the whole drive over, but he never considered it was because she was sitting on information that had to do with his mother. “What shrine in Chicago?”
“So…” Vera squirmed in her seat. “Remember the hurricane?”
“Obviously.” He scoffed.
“Well…” She kept wiggling, the leather squeaking below her. “Something happened at our house that day.”
Max’s mind stilled as Vera relayed the story about the cult in Chicago, the human sacrifices, and the chalice of blood. That chalice was in her basement, a souvenir from devil worshippers. And it shattered.
“So let me get this straight.” Max held up his hands, fingers stretched wide. “A hurricane hit your house and unleashed a demon? That’s what’s inside my mother, right now? But a few days ago, you said those objects were completely safe.”
He slept in that house, so did his sister. They had an entire conversation about that basement, and at no point did anyone mention broken artifacts.
“When we talked, I didn’t know. I hadn’t spoken to my mom yet. She hadn’t told me about the chalice. A lot has changed in a few hours….”
“Would have been nice if you told me! So are these objects safe or not? My sister is there. What happens the next time a storm, a fire, or some clumsy cleaning person strikes? Will dozens more evil spirits be let loose on the world?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know.”
“Well, don’t you kinda have to know? Otherwise, get rid of that stuff.”
“The objects are safe,” Father Chuck defended. “We bless them every week.”
“Clearly, it’s not working!” Max popped up, feeling like the room was shrinking.
It was one thing to think his mother had stumbled upon this demon on her own or was afflicted completely at random, but it was another to learn that it was brought here.
He cracked his knuckles, pacing on the olive-green carpet. “My mother is possessed by a demon that your parents encountered years ago and carpooled with to Roaring Creek. This means none of this would be happening if it weren’t for—”
“Hey, if her parents didn’t do the work they do, that demon never would’ve been bottled up, not for one minute. We all know the truth of that.” Father Chuck stood, cutting off Max’s pacing. “The evil would’ve gone hopping from those boys in Chicago to another and another, and folks would’ve kept dying, dozens, maybe hundreds. So I don’t wanna hear you tossing blame. My eyes have seen what the Martinezes have rid from this world.”
“How do you know that they’ve rid anything? Look at what’s happening! Maybe your spells don’t work.”
“They’re not spells, they’re prayers, and they work,” the priest insisted. “I’ve seen an evil spirit leave a body. I’ve felt it.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve felt my mother turn into whatever was in that chalice!” Max snapped, eyes shooting toward Vera. He knew this wasn’t her fault, logically, but he couldn’t ignore that the evil coursing through his mom, his family, originated in her home. He dropped his head. “You’re telling me everything my family’s going through is because a cup broke in your basement?”
Suddenly Vera marched to Max with heavy steps. “I have spent my entire life dealing with the reality of what my parents do.” Her voice was so steely that Max lifted his head. They faced one another, her finger pointed in warning. “I have been shunned, ridiculed, and so lonely you can’t even fathom. I have resented my parents, I’ve avoided walking past a door in my own home, and I’ve learned to smile wide as person after person in this town—in my school, at your restaurant—treats me like a ghoul. But I can’t anymore. You came to me for help, that’s why we’re here, but if you don’t want it—fine. Because this isn’t just about you anymore; this is about the entire town.”
Max stumbled back, the word ghoul smacking him across the face. He couldn’t lose her too. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken this out on you.”
“Good, that’s settled.” Father Chuck abruptly stepped between them. “Now, tell me about the Sunshine Crew.”
Vera let out an exhale that puffed her cheeks, then she looked at the priest. “Half the town seems to be wearing yellow hats lately, carrying that stupid book. The group was started by Anatole Durand. Then, at the same time, shrines to the Angel of Tears start popping up in the hospital. I didn’t realize the two were connected until I had a vision of Max’s mom seeing the Angel and the book in the window of Durand Flowers.” Vera pulled her fingers, marking the evidence. “If my dreams a
re real—and I think they are—then somehow the Sunshine Crew is brainwashing followers, and, I don’t know, convincing them to worship a demon?”
Max dropped his head. For years, people in town joked about the yellow hats being a cult; it was said teasingly, sarcastically. He never considered it was true, not for one second. They had bake sales!
“I can’t exactly go to the cops and claim my dreams are proof, but I feel like I’m right,” Vera added. “You should have seen my friend at the hospital. Whatever this is, it works fast. She just started joining chat rooms a week ago, and now I don’t even recognize her. I’m afraid if we don’t stop this soon, what’s happening to your mom could happen to everyone else in this town.”
“Then we don’t have time to waste.” The priest stomped to a closet and began riffling through the clutter on the floor. “It sounds like this group is hiding its true face, drawing in folks with its self-help mumbo jumbo, and before they know it, they’re leaving offerings for the devil.”
“The men in Chicago didn’t leave flowers, they left body parts,” Max reminded him. How bad was this going to get?
“Well, sure, if you’re aimin’ to heal the sick, wine and crackers ain’t gonna do it. Demon’s gonna want something big.”
“You’re saying my mom’s going to start leaving…?” No. That wasn’t possible. No matter what was inside his mother, Max had to believe that wasn’t possible.
He pictured his mom curled on the rosy wingback chair in their living room, wearing her black-framed reading glasses that made her look like a teacher, that yellow book spread across her lap. He hadn’t seen her smile that bright in a long time. She was focused—she got the restaurant out of debt and their finances in order. She never mentioned the part about the satanic altar.
“A body part is just one example of a supreme sacrifice for a demon.” Father Chuck placed a heavy palm on Max’s shoulder. “A soul is another.”
Small Town Monsters Page 15
