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I knelt before God with bleeding knees. My soul ached as I prayed, desperate for Him to hear me.

The words tumbled from my lips in a whispered torrent.

My knuckles whitened as I clutched my hands together, pressing until pain shot through my fingers.

Pain kept me present. Pain kept me faithful.

And faith, as Daddy always said, was the only bridge between this world and salvation.

“Lord, hear my prayer,” I whispered, eyes fixed on the crude wooden cross hanging above the altar.

Evening light filtered through the narrow windows, painting golden stripes across the austere stone walls of our little Exeter church.

The emptiness around me felt right—just me and God in the dying light.

“Strengthen my hands for your work. Make me a vessel of Your mercy.”

The church’s sparse interior suited the Puritan congregation that filled it each Sunday.

Plain wooden pews, unadorned walls, and a simple pulpit where Daddy delivered his sermons on hellfire and redemption.

No graven images here—just faith, raw and unembellished.

The candles flickered in their iron holders, casting long shadows that danced like spirits along the floor.

Each shadow seemed to stretch toward me, reaching with formless fingers.

I’d been here since the afternoon service ended, long after the last parishioner had gone home to supper. Time slipped away when I prayed. Minutes or hours—it hardly mattered.

The wooden floorboards creaked behind me. I didn’t turn. In prayer, I belonged to God alone, and whoever waited could wait a moment longer.

“The Lord is my shepherd,” I continued, softer now. “I shall not want...”

The creaking stopped. Breathing—two people waiting. I recognized Daddy’s impatient shuffle, the way his good leather shoes scraped against the floor when he was anxious to speak. The other person stood perfectly still, so still I might have imagined him if not for the weight of his presence.

“Amen,” I finally whispered, crossing myself before rising to my feet. My legs ached from kneeling so long, but I welcomed the discomfort. Sixteen years old, and I’d learned early that pain had purpose.

I turned to face my father, Reverend William Bladewell, his tall frame silhouetted against the dimming light. Beside him stood Mr. George Brown, one of our congregation’s elders, his face a mask of rigid control that couldn’t quite hide his anguish.

“Alice,” Daddy said, his voice softer than the one he used from the pulpit but still carrying that note of authority. “Mr. Brown needs to speak with you.”

I nodded, folding my hands at my waist like Mama had taught me before consumption took her three winters ago. “Elder Brown,” I said with appropriate deference. “How may I be of service?”

Mr. George Brown’s coat trembled on its hook in the entryway, as if caught in a breeze, though the air inside was still. I glanced at it, then back at the man. His face looked carved from stone, weathered by grief and something else—shame, perhaps.

“Miss Bladewell,” he began, then faltered. His eyes darted to my father, seeking permission, or perhaps courage.

Daddy nodded slightly. “Go on, Mr. Brown. Alice is strong in faith. She can bear what you have to say.”

Mr. Brown cleared his throat. “It’s my Mercy,” he said finally, his voice cracking on his daughter’s name. “She’s at the sanatorium. The consumption—“ He broke off, composing himself with visible effort. “The doctors say she hasn’t long.”

I felt a pang of genuine sympathy. I’d seen consumption’s slow, merciless work too many times. “I’m sorry, Elder Brown. I’ll pray for her recovery, and if it not be God’s will, her peaceful passing.”

“It’s not just her body that concerns me,” Mr. Brown said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “It’s her soul.”

A chill rippled through me. Something in his tone—something beyond grief.

“Mercy has...” Mr. Brown paused, looking down at his hands. They were trembling. “She’s become a secret witch.”

The word hung in the air like a curse. I crossed myself reflexively, a habit I’d picked up from a faithful friend of mine, from the church down the road we were forbidden to enter. Daddy often scolded me for it as too Papist, but he said nothing now.

“Are you certain?” I asked, careful to keep my voice steady.

Mr. Brown reached inside his coat and withdrew a small, leather-bound book. The cover was worn, the binding frayed. “I found this among her things when I was bringing her some clothes at the sanatorium.”

He handed it to me with reluctance, as if the mere touch of it might corrupt.

I took it carefully, opening to a random page.

Scrawled handwriting filled the margins around strange symbols and diagrams. Words in Latin mixed with phrases I didn’t recognize.

Recipes for potions and incantations. My stomach tightened.

“I didn’t know,” Mr. Brown said, his voice hollow. “My own daughter, and I didn’t know.”

The candle nearest to us sputtered and died, leaving us in deeper shadow. I closed the book and handed it back, trying not to appear too eager to be rid of it.

“She needs salvation before she passes,” Mr. Brown said, his voice breaking on the words. His rigid control finally crumbled, revealing the desperation beneath. “The consumption’s taken my wife, and now it’s taking my Mercy. But I can’t bear the thought of her soul ensnared by the devil forever.”

“What can I do?” I asked, though I already sensed what was coming.

Daddy placed a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve nursed your mother through her illness. Your cousins too. You’ve sat with the dying, read scripture to them, prayed over them.”

“And never once fallen ill yourself,” Mr. Brown added, a note of awe in his voice. “Everyone knows the Lord’s hand is upon you, Miss Bladewell. Those you pray for find peace, even in death. Not to mention, you’re not much younger than my Mercy. She may listen to you as my pleas meet deaf ears.”

I looked down, uncomfortable with their regard. I wasn’t special. Just lucky, perhaps. Or maybe unlucky to have watched so many die while remaining healthy myself.

“The Lord protected you then,” Daddy said, his fingers tightening on my shoulder, “and He will protect you now.”

I understood then what they were asking. “You want me to visit Mercy at the sanatorium. To pray with her.”

“To save her,” Mr. Brown corrected, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Perhaps not her body—the doctors say she’s unlikely to recover given her condition. But her soul. To bring her back to Christ before it’s too late.”

The weight of their expectation pressed down on me. I was just a girl—what did I know of saving souls? But I couldn’t deny the call I felt. The purpose that had driven me to my knees day after day.

“The sanatorium is no place for a young lady,” I said, but the protest sounded weak even to my ears.

“You’ve seen worse,” Daddy reminded me. “You’ve sat with the dying before. Held their hands as they passed.”

True enough. Death and I were old acquaintances, though not quite friends.

“Please,” Mr. Brown said, the word torn from him like a confession. “She has no mother to guide her. And I—“ He broke off, his hands clenching into fists. “I’ve failed her somehow. Failed to see the darkness taking root in her heart.”

I thought of Mercy Brown. I’d seen her in church, a girl a few years older than me with hair nearly as dark as night and a restless energy that always seemed at odds with the solemnity of worship.

I’d heard whispers about her—that she asked too many questions, that she read books no proper young lady should touch.

I’d never given the gossip much mind. Mercy never paid me much attention, but when she had, she’d been kind.

“Why me?” I asked. “Surely there are others with more experience, more wisdom—“

“Because God has marked you,” Daddy interrupted, his voice taking on the resonant quality he used from the pulpit. “He has kept you safe from the consumption that took your mother, your cousins. That’s no coincidence, Alice. That’s divine purpose.”

I remembered those long nights by sickbeds, scripture readings that seemed to bring comfort even as death approached. The strange peace that sometimes came over the dying as I prayed. Was that God working through me? Or just the natural surrender to the inevitable?

“She asks for you, specifically,” Mr. Brown added quietly.

I looked up sharply. “Mercy asks for me? But we hardly know each other.”

Mr. Brown nodded. “She mentioned you in her last diary entry. Said she’d heard of your... gift. Your immunity. She said—“ He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “She said perhaps you had a power that could help her.”

A chill ran through me at the word “power.” It sounded too much like the language in that witchcraft book.

“Not power,” I corrected firmly. “Faith. If I have any gift, it comes from God alone.”

“Of course,” Mr. Brown said quickly. “That’s what she needs to understand. That true salvation comes only through Christ, not through the dark arts.”

One of the remaining candles guttered, throwing strange shadows across Mr. Brown’s face. For a moment, he looked like someone else entirely—someone harder, colder. Then the light steadied, and he was just a grieving father again.

“Will you go to her?” Mr. Brown asked. “Will you try to save my daughter’s soul?”

I closed my eyes briefly, seeking guidance in the darkness behind my lids. What would Mama have done? She’d always taught me that faith meant action, not just words. That we served God by serving others, especially in their hour of need.

“Yes,” I said finally, opening my eyes. “I’ll go. I’ll pray with her. For her.”

Relief washed over Mr. Brown’s face. “Thank you. Thank you, Miss Bladewell.”

“The Lord works through the willing heart,” Daddy said, squeezing my shoulder in approval. “Alice, you’ll go tomorrow. I’ll make the arrangements.”

I nodded, though uncertainty gnawed at me. What did I really know of witchcraft, of the devil’s temptations? I’d lived a sheltered life, protected by Daddy’s strict rules and our congregation’s vigilance against sin. Was I truly prepared to confront the darkness in a dying girl’s soul?

“I’ll need to prepare,” I said, thinking of the Bible verses I should review, the prayers that might reach a heart turned toward evil.

“Of course,” Daddy agreed. “Mercy may be afflicted by a devil, one that will not hesitate to lash out at you if it perceives your strong faith as a threat. You must be prepared for a spiritual battle.”

The phrase made me shiver. Battle. As if I were preparing for war, not merely visiting a sick girl.

“I should tell you,” Mr. Brown said hesitantly, “Mercy can be... persuasive. She has a way about her—a way of making the wrong seem right.”

“The devil’s oldest trick,” Daddy nodded. “But Alice is strong in faith. Aren’t you, daughter?”

“Yes, Daddy.” The response was automatic, ingrained from childhood.

But as Mr. Brown and Daddy began discussing the practical arrangements for tomorrow’s visit, doubt crept in like the shadows lengthening across the church floor. Was I truly strong enough? Or was I just a girl playing at faith, untested by real temptation?

Apparently, Mr. Brown had a few things to show me. Things that would give me a better idea of how far into these dark arts Mercy had actually fallen. It was a bit much for a girl of my age and naivety, but it was an education I’d better receive sooner than later.