Page 37

Cathy

I collapse onto the sofa at Aunt Nellie’s, too exhausted to climb the stairs to my room. Going to church has always been mentally exhausting and emotionally torturous for me, but today it sapped every bit of my physical energy, too.

I blame most of that on Edgar. As Aunt Nellie and I were stepping through the church doors, he greeted us with a beatific smile. “So pleased to have you with us today.”

He took my hand, rubbing his thumb over my skin, and leaned close to my ear.

“An outburst like last time will not be tolerated. I know who your friend Cliff is now…or should I say Heathcliff Lockwood. A family with the most perverse kind of power. We haven’t executed any supernaturals in a while, but I might make an exception, just for him. ”

My whole body quivered with startled terror, but I couldn’t summon the will to do anything but nod meekly.

During the service, I considered his words, and I fretted over not knowing what kind of supernatural the Lockwoods are.

Did Heathcliff ever hint about what powers he has, besides strength?

As far as I can recall, Dad never explained the Lockwoods’ nature or abilities.

He only said they were dangerous, but how ? What can they do that’s so dreadful?

Speaking of dreadful, the congregation looked wretched today—haggard and hungry, thinner than usual.

Between them and my racing thoughts, I was so distracted that I barely listened to the sermon.

Edgar didn’t preach; it was some other guy, an Ian Holcum.

Aunt Nellie elbowed me significantly when the man stepped into the pulpit, so I assumed it was Edgar’s friend the folklore expert.

He didn’t talk about gods or ancient myths, though.

From the scraps I can recall, the message was mostly about the symbolism of blood and sacrifice throughout Scripture. Creepy stuff.

Now that I’m back at Aunt Nellie’s and I have time to lie here quietly and think, it seems odd how little of the message I heard.

Usually, even if I’m distracted during a sermon, I can remember a few parts word-for-word.

But when I think back to this morning’s message, it’s blurred.

I have a vague impression of the topic but nothing distinct.

I can’t remember a single phrase the man spoke during the forty-five minutes he spent in the pulpit.

I do remember most of the congregation giving me looks of hostility or pity as Aunt Nellie and I made our way out of the sanctuary. But that was to be expected after my last visit.

My body feels tired and weak, like I’ve just recovered from the flu, but it’s like my mind is starting to wake up, burning brighter through the fog that has wreathed my brain since my last debilitating banshee episode.

I’ve felt so soft and sleepy and passive for days, but I’m starting to regain strength, to remember what I want and what I need to do.

Heathcliff. I need to get in touch with Heathcliff. Except I don’t know his number, so I’ll call Daisy. Even though we’re practically strangers, somehow I know she would help me get away from here.

Aunt Nellie comes over to the couch, carrying a huge glass of sweet tea which she sets on a TV tray beside me. “Drink up. You need to hydrate.”

I sip the tea, hoping my obedience will please her enough that she’ll grant my request. It’s sweeter than usual, with a more intense flavor. “Can I have my phone for a little while?”

“The battery’s dead.” She purses her lips, considering. “Tell you what. You finish that glass of tea, and I’ll charge it for you. You can have it tonight.”

“Thank you,” I say fervently.

“You’re welcome.” She strokes my forehead with a cool hand.

“I think I’m getting better,” I tell her. “I’ve never experienced such a bad recovery period after an episode, but it seems to have passed. I think I’ll be fine to stay here by myself tomorrow, so you can go back to work.” And I can leave this house.

“Sarah has been handling everything,” she replies. “While you were resting, I popped into the store now and then to check on things and keep up with paperwork and payroll. But I was overdue for some time off anyway.”

Her hand continues smoothing stray curls back into the braid she did for me this morning. “If I’ve been hard on you, it’s only because I want what’s best. You know that, don’t you?”

Best for who? I want to reply, but I restrain myself because I want my damn phone. So instead of answering, I nod. She removes her hand, looking satisfied, and I prop myself up on one elbow so I can drink the sweet tea. I gulp it down so fast Aunt Nellie chuckles.

“I’ll go make us a big lunch.”

“A big lunch?” I raise my eyebrows. “You’re going to eat too?” I’ve barely seen her eat for days.

“Oh yes.” She smiles pleasantly at me—the signature Aunt Nellie smile.

“Our time of fasting is over. We understand God’s will now, and we know how to seal the demon in his tomb forever.

Pastor Linton and the deacons announced it a few days ago, and we’ve been praying over it as a congregation since then.

This morning’s message affirmed everything, and I’m ready— we are ready to make this sacrifice.

So today’s meal will be a celebration, and then tonight we will cleanse the world of the god’s foul presence. ”

Well, we had a nice moment before she went all cultish on me again. I hum a sound of noncommittal assent as I focus on draining the last of the sweet tea. Then I lean back on the sofa and relax, waiting for my celebratory meal. I’m so hungry, I feel like my stomach might swallow my insides.

It’ll be nice to have something besides crackers. If only I didn’t feel…so sleepy… I…can’t keep my eyes open…

I blink, trying to clear the film over my eyes. Aunt Nellie has paused in the kitchen doorway and she’s looking back at me, but I can’t see her expression. My vision is blurring, and my eyelids are so thick, swollen, and heavy, I can’t keep them open.

Moments ago I was climbing out of the dreary river of the past week and a half, slogging out of the murk into the bright sunshine, but now I’m sliding backward into the darkness again, my limbs too heavy to fight against the sucking downward pull of the black water.

The realization flickers in my brain like the last spark before a fire dies.

Sweet tea. Aunt Nellie’s own special herbal blend.

The nausea, the lack of appetite, the drowsiness, the brain fog…

I wasn’t sick or struggling to recover from that traumatic episode. Aunt Nellie has been drugging me.

She’s been doing it ever since I collapsed at the church.

I want to yell at her, but I don’t have the strength. My lungs are busy hauling slow, shallow breaths through my lungs. My heart beats sluggishly, just enough to keep me alive.

I move my lips a little. Just enough for one breath, one exhaled word.

“Heathcliff.”

***

I’m distantly conscious of being lifted, stripped, dressed in something filmy. Cold air bathes my skin, then a noise rumbles all around me, fading into the steady hum of a car.

Fragrance wafts into my nose, a fresh scent like lilies by a pond—Aunt Nellie’s perfume. The humming and the lilies and the drowsiness are all I know for a long time.

At last, a car door opens and freezing air blasts across my face. The shock is sharp enough to wake me, and I manage to open my eyes.

I still can’t move very well. Someone unbuckles me, swings my legs out onto the ground. It’s horribly cold, and the frozen breath of the night bites right through whatever I’m wearing.

I’m lifted upright, my arms pulled across the shoulders of two people who brace me from either side, Aunt Nellie and my dad. I recognize his scent, too—Old Spice body spray and citrus detergent.

Unease sifts through my drowsiness, but I can’t figure out why.

“Walk, Cathy,” Dad says under his breath. “We’re not dragging you the whole way. Just… walk .”

My weary brain tells me I shouldn’t upset him, so I try to walk. I force my sluggish feet to move, despite the gnawing sense that something is wrong, so very, very wrong.

“You gave her too much, Nellie,” Dad mutters.

“Like you’re the expert,” she snaps. “Who stepped in to manage this mess? Me . Like I did with Mom and Dad. Like I always do.”

The venom in their voices helps to clear my mind even more. I lift my head and take in my surroundings. Great, dark trees with hunched shoulders. Grass studded with headstones. Up ahead, brick columns rear out of the earth.

Old Sheldon Church.

I haven’t been here since last Easter. It looked different then, gilded by beams of translucent sunshine glancing through spring-green leaves.

Now it’s jutting bones, the skeleton of a sanctuary twice burned and still standing.

Black trees surround it, lifting heavy, naked arms to the chalkboard sky.

Mist rises from the ground, birthed by the dramatic drops in temperature so common in the Lowcountry during October.

This isn’t right. We shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous. Gods and monsters and death…

I want to thrash, to fight, to run, because despite the haze in my head, I can practically taste the threat in the air.

But I don’t have full control over my body.

I can barely walk, and although my thoughts are clarifying, I can’t seem to push those thoughts out of my mouth.

I can’t protest or struggle. So I stumble ahead, buoyed by Dad and Aunt Nellie, watching ethereal wisps of white fog curl from the desolate ground.

The mist moves with unnatural purpose, surging and receding like the quickening exhale of some titanic, eldritch thing.

Figures drift through the fog, slow and black clad. Faces I recognize dimly through the gloom and the sleepiness drowning my brain. Some of them have lanterns—actual lanterns with candles in them. I suppose that’s more atmospheric for a midnight service such as this.