by Clay Chapman
the devil doesn’t belong in our schools.
From where Sean sat, they were a shapeless mass of silhouettes. He hardly understood why he was here. He only knew that grown-ups had become very interested in his story.
“These devil worshippers are a highly organized, well-funded operation wholly unknown to those around them,” Cassavetes said. “They can be members of your church, your school, your own family. They can be the parents of your children’s classmates, politicians, or even police officers. The people we trust with our safety, our lives. They…are…everywhere.”
The moment the man with the headset announced they were taking a commercial break, Mr. Cassavetes seemed like a completely different person. His body relaxed. All that fury faded.
He was nothing but smiles now.
“On fire tonight,” he said to no one in particular as a cluster of fussy assistants swarmed around him, powdering his temples and touching up his subtle eye shadow. His unnaturally tan skin seemed incapable of perspiring. One assistant took a small, fine-toothed comb and groomed his mustache. That mustache—full-bodied, perfectly coiffed—was clearly Mr. Cassavetes’s most distinguishing feature, Sean thought.
“Better pace yourself,” the man with the headset said. “Eighty-four minutes to go.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet…”
Mr. Cassavetes glanced over at Sean as his team continued to primp. When they made eye contact, Mr. Cassavetes gave Sean a wink. Just a little something between the two of them.
Don’t worry, kid, that glint in Mr. Cassavetes’s eye said. We got this…
Sean and his mother had originally been in the live studio audience in the front row. At one point during the broadcast, Mr. Cassavetes had stepped down from the stage and addressed Sean directly. He placed a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed, letting him know that the cameras were on both of them. That all the world was watching. Watching him.
It was also their cue that their segment was coming up. Shortly after that, the man with the headset had ushered them onstage. “Remember to breathe,” he whispered to Sean just before leaving him alone with his mom. Good advice. Sean nodded, repeating his sage words.
Remember to breathe…
Remember to breathe…
Breathe…
People swarmed around them until—just like that—they scurried backstage. Sean glanced out at the audience.
All their eyes, staring, waiting for him to—
“And we’re back in five!” the man wearing the headset announced.
Licking their lips.
“Four…”
Their glistening lips.
The man with the headset silently brought up three fingers.
Their forked tongues.
Two fingers.
So wet under the spotlight, so red.
One.
Mr. Cassavetes gave Sean another wink and then turned to the camera. “Hello and welcome back to our show,” he said. “We have some very special guests joining us tonight…”
Mom hadn’t let go of Sean’s hand through the whole show. Her palms were sweating. She must have been nervous, too. Maybe even more nervous than Sean. Anytime someone approached from behind, she’d startle. It was happening more and more lately.
Mom was afraid of everybody now. And who could blame her? Her son was the target of a secret network of Satan worshippers. The devil was everywhere, waiting for her to slip.
Turn her back.
Let him go.
That’s when the devil would pounce. That’s when his devotees would take Sean away from her. She couldn’t tell for sure who they were or how many, but she was positive they were among them right now, hiding in the studio audience. Perhaps even on the television crew.
They look just like us, was how Mr. Cassavetes put it. They are everywhere.
They were here, watching her at that very moment. Waiting.
The “special news broadcast” was on live television. Sean hadn’t understood at first. Wasn’t all TV live? Except for Saturday morning cartoons, like The Smurfs? He’d overheard the woman in the row behind him whispering about how Smurfs taught kids witchcraft. Not to mention communism. There’s a reason why Papa Smurf resembles Karl Marx, she said. Her church successfully petitioned their local affiliate to take that carnal cartoon off the air, a victory that brought this particular row of audience members much pleasure. Satan lost his syndication.
Was He-Man really dangerous? How could Papa Smurf serve Satan? Did adults actually believe this stuff? It seemed silly to Sean…Didn’t they know it was all pretend?
This was still a game, wasn’t it? Was everyone playing along now? Who was in on it?
Mr. Cassavetes explained to Sean that while, yes, his favorite TV shows featured living, breathing human beings, this was happening in real time. Nothing staged or phony about it. What Sean said would be seen by millions of people across the country the moment he said it. Sean didn’t understand “broadcast” and “on air” and “prime time,” but Cassavetes sure took it seriously. It had to be important, then, whatever it meant.
“We have a brave boy with us tonight,” Mr. Cassavetes announced to the people watching at home. “You may recognize Sean Crenshaw from the Greenfield Six trial that has transfixed the nation. Sean is one of the innocent children who suffered at the hands of his kindergarten teacher and five other faculty members who have been charged with satanic ritual abuse.”
Why did everybody keep calling him brave? He didn’t feel brave. What had he done to deserve all this attention?
He wanted to take it all back. Everything he said to Mr. Yucky and the Bad Snatcher. It felt wrong now, having all these eyes on him.
He glanced at his mother. She kept staring off into the audience. The sea of people. Her eyes never settled on one spot. Always moving. Never focusing. She hadn’t eaten recently. She was looking thin. Her cheek bones poked through but her eyes sank back.
Just her and him.
Against the world.
Just her and him.
Against the devil.
Just her and him…and Miss Kinderman, who sat on the other side of Sean in a smart light-purple pantsuit. Her hair looked different. Shinier. She was wearing more makeup than usual, even more thanshe wore during their sessions. Her shoulders looked bigger somehow. Puffier, almost. Sean slowly brought his hand up and tapped her shoulder. It was squishy.
Miss Kinderman belonged on TV. On Dallas with the other beautiful women. She smiled the widest smile whenever the cameras were pointed at her, or put on a thoughtful expression when Mr. Cassavetes asked a question that seemed to merit deep consideration.
Mom and Miss Kinderman had been talking less and less to each other. When Mom came to pick Sean up from his sessions, she would wait in the station wagon. He felt as if he was stuck between them now, as if this were a game of tug-of-war and he was the rope.
They were going to pull him to pieces.
The segment before had been a prerecorded tour of Greenfield Academy, now nothing but a gutted shell of burnt timber. Sean barely recognized it. Was that Mr. Woodhouse’s classroom? He didn’t even realize his school had burned down. Mom had pulled him out months ago. Maybe longer? It was so hard to tell, being stuck at home all day. You’ll go back next year, Mom promised. We’ll find you an even better school, with new friends. And better teachers, and…
Sean didn’t want to go to a new school. All the kids at Greenfield wanted to be his friend now. Always asking him what happened. Always wanting to hear his side of the story.
“Thank you again for agreeing to be here tonight, Sean,” Mr. Cassavetes said as he leaned in. “Do you mind if I call you Sean? Speaking out like this takes courage. Courage a child your age should never have to show…” Cassavetes turned away from Sean and faced the camera. “But the world is never just,
is it? Out of the mouths of babes, as it says in scripture.”
So many eyes. The eyes in the audience.
The camera. That glass eye.
Staring.
“How are you feeling, Sean? Are you scared? It’s okay to be scared. I would be if I were in your shoes…But I want you to know you’re safe here. With me.”
Sean nodded.
“Now, Sean,” Mr. Cassavetes started, just as he told him he would when they prepped backstage earlier that afternoon. “In your own words, as best as you can, can you describe how your teacher brought Satan into your classroom?”
Sean nodded again. “He made us sit in a circle and close our eyes. He made us sing a song he taught us with funny words…”
It was so easy. Saying these words. He’d said them so many times before. The more he spoke, the more he noticed how the audience reacted. A woman brought her hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Another woman’s eyes glistened with tears. So many distraught faces. All of them saying, poor you.
How brave.
“I want to remind our viewers that there have been multiple reports of grave desecrations, graffiti of occult symbols.” Cassavetes had to keep the pace building without going too far. He quickly pivoted, crossing his arms and pinching his chin, as if to summon a question from somewhere deep within his valiant heart. “Sean, if you can…I’m curious: What made you take part in these terrible things? Why didn’t you speak up? Tell your mother?”
“Because…” What was Sean supposed to say again? “He was my teacher.”
Someone from the audience let out a shout, like a balloon popping.
“My teacher,” Mr. Cassavetes repeated. “Someone you have been told to trust. To depend on. To learn from. A teacher is supposed to show you the ways of the world…What hope do our children have if their own teachers are indoctrinating them into the ways of Satan?”
Mr. Cassavetes let this question hang in the air for a moment.
“Mrs. Crenshaw, I have to imagine this has been particularly difficult on you…”
Mom nodded. Her mouth made a funny shape. To Sean, it looked like she was sucking on a hard, sour candy.
“What is it like to hear your son say these things?”
“It’s…” she started, then halted. Her eyes darted to her hand, still gripping onto Sean. Squeezing. “It’s terrifying.”
“Now I understand that your husband is no longer a part of your family.”
“That’s correct…”
“What were the warning signs that you missed?”
Mom’s pinched expression turned into something that was harder for Sean to read. “Excuse me?”
“You’re going to have to forgive me, ma’am…but a part of tonight’s program is to help show other parents how they might be able to stop this from happening in their family. Looking at your own personal experiences, your son’s molestation, will help those watching at home—”
“I protected my son,” Mom called out. Her voice was higher than before.
“Of course you—”
“I love my son.” Her lips tightened. “I did everything I could to—to keep him safe.”
Sean didn’t like the way Mr. Cassavetes was talking to his mom. It sounded like he was saying it was all her fault. That she was a bad mother. That wasn’t a part of their deal. Mr. Cassavetes never said anything about that before the show started. He was changing the rules.
He was playing a different game. All by himself. With rules only he knew.
Mr. Cassavetes was cheating.
“And how do you react to claims your son made about cannibalism?”
Sean’s mother opened her mouth but couldn’t speak.
Cannibalism? Sean was suddenly stuck in the stickiness of the word. What’s that?
“Allegedly, students were forced to eat the flesh of aborted fetuses,” Cassavetes said without a hint of doubt. “We’ve had reports that young women—kids themselves—were impregnated by these devil worshippers, forced to abort their babies on an altar.”
Sean was confused. Mr. Cassavetes was saying things that Sean had never said before.
“Students like Sean were allegedly forced to eat the flesh of these babies, and I can’t help but ask how in the world we, as a nation, have come to this? How can we make this stop?”
Sean looked at his mother, whose face was practically on fire. Mr. Cassavetes noticed too and turned to the camera. “Joining us now is a trained specialist and child psychologist, Dr. Mia Kinderman. Dr. Kinderman has been working exclusively with Sean and other victims of the Greenfield Six. Her findings have been revelatory.”
“Thank you for having me, Manuel.”
Could a man with a leathery tan like Mr. Cassavetes blush? Not under that much makeup, but his smile took on a sheepish quality, as if he were being bashful.
“Dr. Kinderman,” Mr. Cassavetes continued, “what can you tell us about your research?”
“Well, Manuel, given that this is an ongoing case and I’m working with children, the lion’s share of my findings must remain private. But, that said, from what I’m able to discuss with the public, I must say…this epidemic is far worse than anyone can imagine.”
“Worse? How so?”
“Ritualistic abuse is a cancer. It is spreading throughout our communities, small town after small town. It has made its way into our schools and it has infected our children.”
“But how? Why children, Dr. Kinderman? Why target our most innocent?”
“Because of their innocence. Because Satanism has one goal and one goal only. To make people despair. If they can corrupt our most impressionable citizens…what hope do we have?”
“How could such atrocious acts go unnoticed for so long? How did we get to this point?”
“Simple,” she said. “Because nobody wants to believe something so evil as this is possible. And yet…here we are. It’s only when someone brave, like Sean, steps forward and shines a light on this type of moral corruption that the rest of the world is willing to listen.”
Miss Kinderman turned to Sean and smiled.
That’s when it struck him. Miss Kinderman was looking more and more like his mother every day. Or the way she used to look. Healthier, happier. More beautiful. How much longer would it be until there was nothing left of his mother and Miss Kinderman took her place?
Sean wanted to run. Run right off the stage. He wanted to grab his mother’s hand and pull her away from this strange and scary place.
“Do you believe Sean’s testimony? These heinous claims of devil worship?”
Miss Kinderman considered this. “I think, as a culture, we must believe our children. No matter what.”
Now Mr. Cassavetes looked directly at Sean. “It’s possible that there are people watching our show tonight who may have been involved in the same secret organization of Satan worshippers as your teacher. Is there something you might want to say to them, Sean?”
Sean considered this as best he could. What could he say?
“Stop hurting me. Stop hurting my mom,” he said directly to Mr. Cassavetes, looking him right in the eye. “Get away from me.”
Mr. Cassavetes smiled a knowing smile. “Stop hurting me,” he repeated. “Such a simple plea. And yet…look at how low we’ve gone, to where the innocent cries of our most vulnerable go unanswered. Our country is in the midst of a holy war right now, ladies and gentlemen. I want to follow Sean’s courageous lead and speak directly to those disciples of the devil who are watching tonight. I know you are.” He looked into the camera, taking on a stern, puffed-up stance. He pointed at the lens and jabbed at the air with his index finger. “You may hide in the shadows, you may creep in the corners of our country, but you’ll be brought into light, under the eyes of God, and you’ll not—I repeat, you will not—win. Not in my America. Evil will not prevail. Thank you fo
r watching.”
The studio audience jumped to their feet and cheered. Most of them. Some pushed against their neighbors. Some yanked the posterboard signs from the hands of their fellow audience members and ripped them in half. A fight broke out in the back. A pair of linebacker security guards rushed in to break it up.
But all Sean heard was the applause. They were cheering for him. Worshipping him.
He was a star. A bright, shining star.
He looked up into his mother’s face. I did what you wanted, Mom. Are you proud of me?
But Mom wasn’t there. Not really. Her body, yes, but the rest of her was gone. Even if he was only five, Sean knew when his mother was there and when she was not.
He turned back to the crowd. Tucked into the audience, two rows back, was a little valley of shadow. Sean had to squint to be sure, but he saw someone he recognized.
A child staring back at him, unaffected by the chaos around him.
Sean waved.
The gray boy waved back.
DAMNED IF YOU DON’T
RICHARD: 2013
I remember the parents. How they gathered outside the courthouse every morning during the trial. The police set up barricades around the main entrance. Blue-painted roadblocks flanked the sidewalk, creating a narrow egress for officers to escort Mr. Woodhouse inside without being attacked by a stray mother. Protestors pressed against the blockade, brandishing their homemade signs over their heads.
ride the lightning, woodhouse (along with a crude sketch of an electric chair).
the devil you know (with a photocopy of Mr. Woodhouse’s mugshot).
see you in hell (a caricature of Mr. Woodhouse bent over, ready to receive a pitchfork up his rear end delivered by the devil).
Mothers spat at Mr. Woodhouse as he walked by. He kept his head low, an officer at either side, shoulder to shoulder with him. I barely recognized him in his orange jumpsuit. That couldn’t be my kindergarten teacher. Who was this man?
I saw Tommy Dennings’s mom lean over the wooden stanchion and spit a wad of phlegm directly at Mr. Woodhouse’s right cheek. A riled-up dad leaned forward and grabbed his arm, dragging Mr. Woodhouse closer. More parents took hold, seizing him, until Mr. Woodhouse’s slight body was swallowed up by a knot of parents. The police couldn’t yank him back, couldn’t pry him out.
