My body was a fresco. The skin frayed at the edges, a tattered blanket to cocoon in. Sitting up in my cell, I traced the new wounds the priests made. My deflated chest oozed deep, tainted blood. Reopened scars hatched along my limbs like overflowing trenches. My trembling fingers reached toward the apex of my throat. Salt and copper fought through shaky, unrelenting gags, snaking down into my essence. Even with my little strength, it felt so easy to reach into my larynx and tear out the source, like pushing through the shell of an egg. I hesitated, listening for a presence. The candlelight drew the shadows around me closer, Satan flickering on the walls. As brief my excursion into the outside world was, I could still feel the wind gliding along my skin, almost anticipating it. But deep below the church, the air was stillborn; every breath felt invasive, a fresh device of torture. There would be no more escape for me. My Christ was still watching, and for all I endured, for how soon I would be meeting Him, I had nothing to offer. I clasped myself and cried into an empty embrace.
A splash of cold hit me downwind of the street. I tugged the frays of my coat and huddled closer into the phone booth, wishing it had a door or an extra screen to shield me from the elements. Cold was by no means unfamiliar, as I had shivered through its embrace countless times, but the endless sky that tore above me shared an older, unsounded relative of what I’d experienced before. The dryness of winter brought some distance between those memories and my present sensations. I tried everything in my power to exacerbate it. Looking down, my trembling hands still held on to the paper the detective gave me— a direct line to his personal phone. I struggled briefly with the coins before entering the number.
“Detective Laramie speaking.”
“It’s me. I’m ready to talk again.”
“Are you sure? We didn’t get far last time, before…”
I stuffed my growing nausea as far down as possible. “I’m sure.”
It was my fourteenth year in the program. Around that time, I fully realized how close my Lord was to retrieving me. Following standard procedure, I was stripped and ushered into the dungeons. Imperceivable corridors stagnated the air with uncompromising walls, shrinking into an unfathomable depth. Each of my limbs were managed by a priest, hoisting me above the ground with steadfast grips. I kicked at the walls, clawing at passing stones, but they slipped underneath my fingers; my nails dug into their wrists, but my efforts proved futile. The punishment for my disobedience would be drawn-out and ungenerous. I knew this, of course. Protest invariably yielded disciplinary action, as disobedience was a seedling that demanded extraction before it sprouted. Just as one doesn’t leave a candle burning unattended through the night, it must be quickly snuffed. As my life drew shorter, I acted out more, given less reason to hold onto this mangled form with each passing year. The priests nursed me on sufficient nutrients, but I still grew weak, fearing every ritual as the one I could never recover from. My body, spindly and rotted, could at any moment succumb to a lifetime of decay.
Ultimately, my show of unwillingness failed to impede my journey or my destination. At best, it solidified my fate. I was too weak to keep acting tough, which the priests fully understood—if I posed any meaningful threat, they would escort me in chains. Material tampering with the conduit was to be avoided, however, as it could interfere with communion or dilute any extractions. Chains may leave a mark, which my body was no stranger to, but what mattered was intentionality. The earlier attempts I participated in suffered from these externalities, which were deemed the source of their failure. But after these many rituals, a single man for every extremity was enough to hold me in place. Combined with this, my undiluted state of awareness would bring me closer to our Savior, the inevitable pain allowing his passion to be channeled. More direct communication with God was bound to follow.
“Why did they do this? Was there another goal in mind, besides what you mentioned, or just small-town tradition?”
The detective in front of me thumbed his notepad. I couldn’t guess why he was interested in me at first. Everyone in this town said to go to the police, but the men at the station doubted my story when I professed my genuine belief in it all, instead directing me to women’s shelters and a local psychologist. Not knowing any other powers to turn to, I tried to live inconspicuously. This town was far enough from Oxville that I wasn’t too afraid of being recaptured. Months passed before, out of nowhere, the man across from me reached out. He shied away from claiming to represent the police, but he still worked for the station. Through a grizzled face and smiling eyes, his motivations seemed genuine enough. He’d gone to every shelter in town trying to find me, after all. Although I questioned his choice of meeting spot, the casualness of the diner did well to soothe my trepidation. The snow by our window seat, a sight I had yet to fully adjust to, offered comfort in its slow descent, glinting in the evening sun. All the smoke and noise made me feel like a real member of society, though the rest did little to acclimate me to the outside world. I tried to let these moments of normalcy saturate my perspective.
I spoke with a plain tone, starched by the lingering taste of cigarettes.
“It was mostly that,” I swallowed the hoarseness, still not used to using my voice this much. “Evoking godly presence and insight. They would find messages on our skin.” How the marks bruised and healed, the shade of our blood, the pulse underneath the scars—God was tricky to uncover.
“So it was divination, that sorta stuff?”
He wasn’t writing yet. I ran through my memories, but they were far out of reach, resting on a pillar I couldn’t see the top of. A knot formed in my throat, anchoring my pursuit. Choking up now would have just sullied what progress we’d made. I chased the feeling down with a gulp of coffee.
A waitress came over and asked if we’d decided on our orders.
“I’ll let the miss go first.” The man smiled at me. I pointed at the omelet, and he went with the same. “I got a buddy in the kitchen—big fat guy,” he said before the woman left. “Tell him Jack Laramie’s ordering, he’ll fix it up right.”
He noticed my despondency. “You don’t need to say it all right now, Miss Steine. It’s an ongoing investigation; we’ll get what we need in time. Just focus on working through what you can recall, okay?”
I nodded. The scarcity of my remaining time was not yet understood. Nature or man, one inevitable force would catch up to me and put down my flight.
“Now, was this ‘evoking’ something that happened often? What exactly were the results of all this? If you’re comfortable explaining.”
The customers were focused on their own lives, our conversation unnoticed. I rolled up my sleeve and showed the detective the sigils engraved along my arm: circles interconnected, strewn with lines and forgotten symbols. His pen worked fast to copy them down.
I was born into condemnation. In my earliest recollections, the stained glass of the church translated heaven’s sentence onto me and bathed me in its judgment. My father, a priest in Oxville, loved to shower me in the tinted light before the altar. When no one was around, he would cradle me before those glass portraits of the Lord, murmuring prayers and expecting absolution. He worked in the church all his life, as his father did before him. Men were expected to carry on this lineage. This tradition ended when I was born, as no brothers followed me out of the womb. I suspect my father never truly forgave me for sullying his pedigree. The sin of my birth weighed on his reputation, our proud line ruined by one man’s inability to procure a son. He found ways to keep me in our line of work, however. I wondered if he intentionally sought it out, looking to fulfill his spiritual mission, seeing purpose where there was none. More likely, he sentenced me to a short, agonizing life out of some unacknowledged spite, kept from me to wonder about.
The circumstances of my birth were muddy, according to him. I was born with auspicious signs, mapped to stars that promised an innate resonance with the divine. My mother, looking for a way to acquit herself for her lack of boys, substantiated his assessment with her experience during pregnancy. We used to be the same being, and she was thus connected to my spirit, able to sense the potential nursing in her baby. I blocked any sons from forming on account of my overwhelming giftedness, using up my mother’s potential for delivery with one birth. Our mutual attunement provided sufficient evidence in the eyes of the church. My affinity with the supernatural was strong—strong enough, it would prove, to award me an education exceeding that of my general heritage.
At five, I gained awareness of the curse I was swaddled in. Priests from the inner sanctum arrived one morning, clad in black robes which belied their frailness. A full examination of my spiritual aptitude was necessary. I was confiscated by them and taken through the passageway connecting the main hall to their spaces of operation. They led me further into the church, each turn becoming sharper, winding down into seemingly impossible space. The lanterns on the wall grew fewer and fewer as we descended. After unknowable minutes we reached a wide opening of stairs, its end obscured like the mouth of a cave. What little hospitality I found in the church’s upper levels perished in its clandestine underbelly, wilting like an apple left to rot. The priests took a few torches nested by the first step and guided me toward the dungeons.
Despite modernity’s encouragement, the lowest levels of the church lacked any electrical luxuries. The few entryways in operation left one clamoring in the dark—a representation of man’s primeval state of ignorance, the priests explained. An archaic sentiment carried from when the church was built, but a necessary one. Ancient rites were ripe in that tarnished place. Tradition died a slow death, and fear of altering reliable processes bruised any consideration of the new. When the outside grew critical of true, unyielding faith, they had to carry on in secret, maintaining their closeness with the darkness kept below. Even at five, descending with them towards the church’s underbelly, I felt the difference was jarring.
Clinging to the hems of the priests’ robes, I could not see the danger ahead. All structures blended together, barely lit by the torches. The sound of rattled chains and creaking iron fractured through the hall, molding into the fabric of the dungeons. Profound and inexplicable sorrow penetrated my soul, like a supernatural guilt accumulated over untold years that seeped into the very architecture. Past countless unmarked chambers, a few sealed with iron bars, we eventually stopped upon a larger room with an arched entrance. With their hands on my back, the priests gently led me inside, like guiding a sheep into a pen.
Bookshelves lined the walls, surrounding a circular depression in the floor. A priest brought a chair into it, alongside a stand topped with prepared jars, some empty while others held liquids of indistinguishable colors. I was guided to sit down. They prompted me to drink something from the stand. The deep blue liquid swirled like the night sky, smelling faintly of herbs. My hands were too small to hold its container, so they held it up and slowly poured it into my mouth. The taste was sudden and repulsive. I tried to spit it out, but a hand grabbed my jaw, forcing it open. It moved slowly down my throat like sludge. Once a measured amount was inside, they shut my mouth so I could not spit it out. I squeezed my eyes shut as I tried to swallow. Once they were sure it was all down, they moved to prepare the extraction materials. The liquid churned in my stomach, causing my head to spiral. My brain felt severed from the rest of me, leaving its skull an empty vessel floating above the room. Through this disorientation, the priest holding me procured a small knife. He brought it to my arm and pressed the blade into my skin. More hands appeared out of the dark to restrain my kicks and cries. The knife dragged along my outer forearm, creating two overlapping incisions. Each drop of blood was caught in the ampule for later testing. Straining through tears, I cried for my mother. My screams echoed toward nothing.
I traced over the spot: two raised bumps delineating the cross of our Savior, marking me to the bone. I garnered no sensation from it, like I was touching something foreign to my body.
Detective Laramie stubbed out another cigarette. The omelet in front of him was barely eaten. “And all of this happened right underneath the town’s nose? No one questioned the priest’s kid suddenly having scars all over her?”
“The tests showed me as mystically inclined,” I paraphrased. “The priests took me from my parents after that. Sequestered me in the basement. I can’t guess if anyone knew I was down there…”
“Surely they would take you out at least sometimes, what with service and your family.”
I dug my fingers into my thigh. “They brought me upstairs, but never outside the church.”
The detective scratched his chin. “I still can’t believe no one noticed. Even when they brought you up? A malnourished, scarred kid appears with creepy priests, and no one bats an eye?”
“They were friendlier on the surface. It wasn’t the Dark Ages; they couldn’t act however they wanted with the public. People questioned too much.”
I must have sounded annoyed. “Ah, forgive me. I don’t mean to push you. I’m just wanting to know more.”
“No,” I ran my fingers along the grain of the table, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. You can keep asking.”
He seemed satisfied with that. “Were always by yourself? No kids down there with you?”
“Not always. We were all members of the program, but we were kept on different schedules and in different rooms. I only saw them in passing.”
Their bodies degraded each time. Without access to my reflection, I used their visage to imagine what I must have looked like. Withered hair, skin worn to the muscles—they never lasted as long as I did.
Laramie stared out the window, arm slung over the chair. “Must have been lonely.”
I moved to speak in the rhythm of conversation, but no thoughts arrived to supply my voice. My synapses armed themselves with spears against me. I recognized moments of something approaching loneliness, but I’d never ascribed a label to it. The primordial mechanisms garrisoning my psychology weren’t making this any easier, and try as I might, I knew I couldn’t fight my body. Laramie didn’t recognize my attempt to speak. I drowned the silence with a sip of coffee—my second cup.
“Did you ever look for a way out? Before your recent escape, I mean.”
The real answer would be strange out loud. It wasn’t a constant struggle to escape, but I never really tried, did I? When opportunities presented themselves, I lashed out at my brain for even considering the idea, trying to shake the Devil from my thoughts. Regardless, this wasn’t therapy; I did not have to confront anything, and the investigation wouldn’t be helped by my guilt. “Every day.”
I knew he could see my expression, how I searched him for approval in my faked response. Truly, I couldn’t admit how quickly my resolve caved. I was only a child, I thought. There was hardly any blame to be cast. But even though he, a total stranger, might forgive my helplessness, I never could. Knowing the extent of what I’d been through, I was content dying with shame.
The detective nodded. “Understandable. The other children, did they look for ways too?”
“I don’t know. We never coordinated anything—we really couldn’t.”
“Ah, I’m sure it was difficult.” He lit another cigarette, offering me one as well. I took it. “The reason I ask all this is… over the years, the Oxville police station received reports of missing adolescents reappearing near the freeway. Seen by nobody for years, and then suddenly back in the open.”
I nodded. “That’s strange.”
“But that’s not the strangest thing. I looked over the police database for the reports on their location. Despite being found, they go missing after the first caller reports them to the authorities. Though there are only a few instances of these children being found, this pattern is found in all of them.”
He listed the cases: Nicole Fraser, missing 1974, found 1979; Peggy Reid, missing 1975, found 1982; Rebecca Vandergrift, missing 1978, found 1983.
My hands grew clammy as he finished the last. “That was this year.”
“Yes, and they did not find her after. The callers themselves are not found guilty of abducting them—there’s no record of any charges or suspicion laid against them, yet alone court cases. There is strong reason to suspect these children were taken somewhere after they were reported. Accounting for what you’ve just shared,” he took a drag of his cigarette, “I believe it’s the church.”
The snow piled on the street outside. “Why don’t you do anything about it?”
“Whatever is truly happening, the police in that town are uncooperative. I’ve spent the past 3 years looking into these reports and they haven’t given me an inch. The latest chief even closed the cases when I confronted him.”
I frowned. “There has to be something, you can’t just give up.”
“I’m sorry. There are certain legal barriers you can’t go around. Even now, if they found out I’m doing this…”
Foreign indignity spat through my mouth. “Why doyou go through this trouble?”
Laramie groaned as he adjusted his seat, taking a moment to think.
“I’m an old man. All my coworkers think I should have retired by now instead of wasting my time on cold trails. My boss even threatened my pension if I didn’t stop. Call it a strange obsession, but it never sat right with me that the cases were dismissed so easily. I don’t have stakes in Oxville, so what better way to spend my last year in the force going after these unsolvable mysteries?”
It felt odd to have my town as one man’s fascination. “Do you not worry for your safety, then?”
“Do you?”
The air grew thick, muffling the noise around us. I didn’t respond. Laramie’s eyes darkened, and the wrinkles around his mouth faded.
“Miss Steine,” he leaned in. “What I’m saying is that, based on this pattern, you may be at risk of being abducted. These people are capable of great violence. They are not your friends. They did not stop at Rebecca and will likely not stop at you.”
Deep down, I was entirely cognizant of this fact, yet part of me just wanted to run further from this mess. I would go as far as I could, escaping to whatever corner of the Earth to evade that terrible home. It was cowardly and naïve, but a form of solace. The detective knew better, though. This would follow me to my death.
“You’ll be safe, don’t worry. If they haven’t found you so far, they are unlikely to come anytime soon. We’ll take you into witness protection once your official testimony is recorded. You’re still at that shelter, yes?”
“Wait,” I stammered, placing my trembling hands on the table. Speaking made me realize how cold my face felt, as if all my warmth was drained toward a blown-out survival instinct. He couldn’t leave me now, not after how recent their activity has been. I deserved to die, but Satan’s grip on me was strong, weighing my resolve down with an outside, impure attachment. Even still, I didn’t want to let go. “Wait, you can’t…”
Guilt passed the detective’s face, though its urgency fell far short of mine. “I’m truly sorry. But like I said, I’m in a difficult position. Both you and I have to tread carefully around this. Okay?”
My breathing gradually became steadier, helped by my desire to avoid making a scene. “Okay.”
He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Now, are you still at the shelter?”
I gave a faint nod.
“Good. Well, it’s getting late,” Laramie set some cash on the table and got up, wasting the rest of his omelet. “I think we covered enough today.”
He grabbed his coat from the rack and led me outside. Parked on the street, a white SUV responded to his remote keys. As I entered, I wondered if this was all my life would be.
Though I was born into the church, like all sinners I had lapses in faith and interrogated my purpose. My most primal feelings indicated my arrangement was wrong, even if the priests framed it as necessary, or even good. It’s what led me to attempt my escape, after all. Fourteen years in the program garnered many rationalizations. I wouldn’t be born under these circumstances if I hadn’t been designed to, said the priests. My flesh for higher understanding, a chance to reach to God. Deeper faculties of the human mind uncovered by my existence. My purpose was ironclad, and I believed it. The books they fed me on supported this idea. The Bible and its supporting texts were the stem of my learning, but instead of building up from it, they led me deeper, burrowing underneath its foundation. I was taught to recite forgotten gospels, ancient mantras dating back to King Solomon’s reign. The priests graded me on my own rituals, remembering what incenses and symbols to wield, how best to increase my affinity with our Maker. This was secondary to my main purpose: supplying them with a conduit for their rites, a body to grow the materials they needed. This pedagogy was a mere play at increasing my spiritual capability; they would cultivate my education just to see how far I could go while I was still alive.
Abiding by the program’s general conduct, this was all done in isolation. Spare a priest tutoring me through nights in my chamber- a repurposed cell from an older period, featuring only a wooden bed and a single candelabra- I was alone in my education. From age five, they would read to me only as necessary to ensure my literacy, talk to me as little as was required to comprehend their speech. I was only allowed to read under their supervision, but I remembered the words well. The archaic diction of Biblical texts supplied me with a sufficient vocabulary, at the very least. I struggled to label the priests negligent in the classical definition. Though I missed my parents desperately, the only socialization I received was within the church body—I had no way to gauge the depth of my mistreatment past what my body craved physically, nor the language to articulate how it could be wrong. My denial was only natural, the priests explained. That feeling of emptiness was a byproduct of the sin I inherited, a hole only filled by a closer relationship to God. What the priests laid before me was the barest representation of the material world, pregnant with naked darkness, save for what few moments the Lord shone upon it. In all this squalor, what better way to follow our Savior than to offer oneself towards His goals, to rush towards His embrace? As my body grew weaker, I was succored on this promise. A part of me was shocked at how long I sustained myself on that belief. I scourged myself for believing it still.
The detective steered us through the barely lit streets. Even this late into the night, a few pedestrians huddled the sidewalks, clutching their winter garb to shield themselves from the wind. Most of the cars out were parked next to residential buildings, though there was a black van on the road with us. I was looking in the mirror to gauge its movements before Laramie spoke up.
“Do you like the town so far? He asked, humming to the radio.
“It’s okay.” Though I didn’t remember much of Oxville’s layout, this town didn’t seem too different from it, although it was noticeably larger. All the cars using the main road made me think I’d get hit trying to cross. A church was here too, younger than the one I belonged to. The crucifix outside made me tense. Inwardly, I cursed its efforts, that contemptible bastardization of the holy house, gutted by the modernity of Satan. Faint relief struck me like a swift breeze. Though I mourned what fate awaited me, I would rather arrive in Hell a heretic than a blasphemer.
“And the shelter? Treating you good, right?”
I shrugged. A place to stay, I supposed. It was still difficult not sleeping alone, but that was the least of my worries now. With him believing I may be in danger, I trusted his lack of worry regarding where I stayed.
“I’m glad. It’s the least you deserve: a warm bed, hot food. Beats that church.”
In the silence, Laramie must have noticed me fidgeting.
“Do you have any goals or anything, Miss Stiene?”
“Goals?”
“Yeah, you know. Dreams, ambitions—goals.”
Adjusting further to my new life was the obvious way forward, but I struggled to see beyond that. His voice added a strange pressure to the question. I swallowed. “I don’t know. I never really decided.”
“Well, it has only been nine months. No one would blame you for not having it figured out. But it’s always good to have something to look forward to, right?” He chuckled, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “Maybe you could find some work? Get your footing, work toward an education. Not in theology, of course.”
The certainty with which he spoke tugged on a sickness in my core. His driving wasn’t helping. I looked outside to calm my nausea, seeing the black van in the mirror once again. It disappeared behind a building as we turned the final corner.
Eventually, we pulled up to the homeless shelter. I wished I could afford more accommodation, but the unofficial nature of this case meant Laramie’s hands were tied—at least, that’s how he explained it. Though he was right in saying anything was better than that church, I felt he could be doing more to benefit my situation aside from asking questions and driving me places. There had to be something.
“Remember, Miss,” he called as I got out. “You have my number. Give me a call if anything happens, or you want to talk again.”
Laramie drove into the night, having cast the bait.
My fourteenth year, aged nineteen: the priests brought me back to my chamber, fresh from the ritual. For my earlier protest, I would be disciplined. I did not expect my kicking and clawing to yield much aside from that. The priests left to devise my torture. I sat alone with the realization I might not make it another day. Minutes passed, and the uncertainty of my fate left me restless. Most days, I was content with my early death. But even with this consolation, I grew afraid. The regimens had intensified over the preceding months, my body turning increasingly unrecognizable, and the wailing of my nerves grew too desperate to nurse. Sometimes I wondered if the church knew how close Satan laid to my soul, how deep he implanted that embryo of doubt within me. Maybe that’s why they pushed me further: to bare me before the Lord as much as they could, force me to cower before Him and renounce that demonic uncertainty which lingered in my spine. Since my induction, I was convinced that life was nothing precious to me, having persisted only because self-desecration is a sin, but my fear on that day was alien and fresh. I wanted to purge it like a swallowed poison. My body flashed between hot and cold, as if it could sweat out that ugly instinct woven through its veins. All of my surfaces felt bare, each fresh cut replaying its origin, needles writhing along unyielding bone. My eyes darted around the room, scanning for anything to alleviate my fear and misery. The faint light allowed me to notice a loose stone by the door. I retrieved it and felt its weight in my hands, a new sense of power dawning on me. The cell door was weak and rusted, and thus easily caved by my meager strength. All paths smothered in the dark, I picked a direction and ran.
Snow cradled the pavement around the shelter. Though it no longer fell, the air picked up with intensity and kept putting out my lighter. It felt too late for a smoke, but I couldn’t sleep anyway, and it wasn’t allowed inside. I raised my cigarette and tried again, only for it to be extinguished once more. Unfamiliar frustration burned inside me, a natal emptiness creeping up my gullet. I recalled my talk with the detective earlier—it all really happened, didn’t it? I sensed my body through my clothes, like a final wrapping I could never shed. The marks decorating my worn exterior burned with an inescapable presentness, each culpable blade preserved through extinction in nerves I never wanted. My fingers began to tremble, cold and desperate. The wind stormed my lungs as I heaved through panic. I’d lose my mind if I didn’t occupy myself. Clutching my coat, I looked for a place shielded from the wind. An alley between the shelter and another housing unit looked promising. Venturing inside, I huddled the cigarette to my lips. The lighter was stiff, but it gave in with a click, its heat blooming through my hands like a flower through concrete. A few drags passed in an instant, and my heart calmed under primeval sensation. The dam was reconstructed, sealed with nicotine, my body once more engineered against itself. I exhaled, settling into the moment. The streets around me burned through the remaining vertigo, deserted in the night. Despite being here for nine months, I never saw the town in this empty of a state. At best, my stay felt temporary, but seeing this place for what it was, stripped of the people that comprised it, I felt the most connected to physical space as I’d ever been. An unexpected yearning settled in my gut, demanding satiation. The danger of going alone was still palpable, but I’d lasted this long without anything happening. The material world would normally offer no safety, and maybe that’s why the others were taken back so soon. Unlike them, I was too disgraced to return, a lost child that strayed too far from His light. Finishing my cigarette, I stepped outside the alley.
Most of the town was draped in winter: Christmas lights strung along every storefront; wreaths hung from each door. Lampposts were lightning bugs along the street, swimming in the hazy afterglow of earlier snowfall. The wind was chilly, but my scarf bore the worst of its bite. I passed by each shop, peering through their windows. A weave of mannequins stood proud on display, wound in the latest fashion. Newspapers were plastered on the front of others, providing a glimpse into the world at large. Profound melancholy creeped up my sleeves; I couldn’t resist the impulse to walk away.
Through the lashes of wind, a distant engine reached my ears. I turned around, half-expecting to see Laramie, only to find a black van on the horizon. It inched toward me, like a predator in consistent pursuit. It soon pulled up to the sidewalk, and two men got out from the front seats, concealed by overcoats. Hands stuffed in their pockets, they started walking in my direction, shoes clacking against the pavement. I faced away and started walking too, trying to pretend I didn’t know what they were after. Their presence crept over my shoulders, a light touch on my back, grazing my cheek. I moved faster, and their footsteps quickened in turn. This was not a general malice—it was honed, targeted, familiar. My captors were here. I began to run, and they leapt into a full sprint behind me, chasing me through the dark.
I looked down the street as far as I could, searching for a way to outmaneuver them. They were much faster, and I couldn’t keep ahead for long. I turned down the nearest alley and crossed to the other side, weaving through buildings, hoping the obstruction could throw them off. Even after I couldn’t see them anymore, I ran, going until my lungs threatened to collapse. After what felt like an eternity, I made it the outskirts of town. A few lonely buildings dotted the landscape, a small road connecting them to the larger area I came from. In the moonlight, I spotted a phone booth in the distance. With what little strength remained, I huddled towards it and hurriedly fished out some change.
“Detective Laramie speaking.”
I caught myself on the booth, wheezing too hard to speak. If I didn’t say anything now, they would kill me.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
“Detective…”
“Miss Steine? Is something the matter?”
“They’re- they’re after me,” I croaked out, each word a struggle. “I can’t… I can’t run…”
“Stay with me, Miss.” The detective rustled on the other end. “Where are you now? Can you see?”
“I… see…” The few structures around me blurred in a pool of dizziness. Even if I regained my footing, the street signs weren’t lit by anything. “The outskirts…”
“The outskirts?” He echoed. “Tell me what you can see around there, anything. I need a more specific location.”
I spun to face the town. “There’s the-”
Out of the darkness, two figures approached, silhouetted by the streetlights. My entire body trembled—I could barely hold the receiver up.
“Miss Steine?”
I tried to move, but my knees were too weak. The figures were barely a meter away. Falling to the ground, I huddled into the payphone, forced to look at my assailants. They watched as I cowered at their feet, shaking like a lost puppy. Even through the dark, I was afraid to meet their eyes, like I would cave in from a single glimpse. They pulled my wrists above my head and held a sweet-smelling rag to my face.
“Miss? Hello?”
The world dimmed around me as the receiver dangled, calling into nothing.
I awoke to the smell of rot. It thickened as I regained my senses, stewing in the corridor. I was naked and priests held me by each limb, carrying me toward unpolluted doom. Terrible apprehension gripped me, but I could not even tremble. Encoded into my very tendons was the futility of further resistance, and being here reactivated my wiring. The torches hung on the corridor walls disappeared into the black, indistinguishable steps marching toward my destination. My heart pounded in my ears, but my chest felt hollow like a drum. A light appeared at the end of the hall, a lantern floating on a sea of night. The ritual chamber was prepared.
I was thrust unceremoniously onto the central table. The priests splayed me out atop the sigil engraved upon it, my back to the stone, pinning my wrists and ankles down with their full weight. Forced to look at the ceiling, I did what I always did and tried to count the stones. Bloodstains sprouted from the cracks like moss, coming more to life with each lit candle. A temporary spell, soon broken with the cry of an unsheathed knife. The chanting began and the priests surrounded me, each voice quiet on its own, but resonant as a group. One priest pulled my breast while the other readied the blade for a new incision. They cut along its underside with medical certainty. My entire body tensed at once. I tried to choke out a scream, but my throat mustered no sound. A tube sank into the cut before any fat spilled out. Slow, yellow clumps wormed down into a connecting jar. Another conduit for divine communication. This time, they would not stop at a portion.
The punishment for escape was immurement. I knew this, and yet I tried to flee regardless. All the lessons in the world seemed unable to set me down my true path. The priests threw me into my old chamber with intent to hurt. My open skin shot fire through me as I slid across the cobbled floor, shaking from exposure. The door slammed, the priests’ torches disappearing behind it, and guilt descended on me like a shadow. A candle, looming in the corner, still burned in the darkness, approximating the Devil around me. My hands recounted the physical damage I’d received, tracing my wounds, my deflated breasts. I held myself and sobbed, digging through my skin as if I hated it. The world above was nothing more than a pleasant dream, but I missed it so desperately. I missed the Sun warming my skin, how I had to shield my eyes when it glinted off the snow. I missed the smells of Spring flavors, that first breath of air when I escaped. His works were a wonder I didn’t deserve to behold, and I hated how I thirsted for them. I dug further and further, trying to show my Lord how sorry I was for my departure. I never meant to hurt Him so, but it was too late—all my chances were expended. Like every sinner, I was only repenting at the final hour, and I would not be saved with mere words. His Grace had to be earned another way.
The candle stood powerful above me, gazing down from atop the candelabra. It cast its light upon my broken form, judging me for my imprudent endeavor. I could never escape, not in this state. The beacon knew another path, though. To my side, it shined upon a loose stone embedded in the floor. I removed it and at once examined the underside. The light revealed to me a wooden shiv tucked away, placed by someone far before me. To think an exit was nestled this close to me only solidified my foolishness. Still, I did not worry, for I knew how to redeem myself in the eyes of my Lord. In a final display of penitence, I clasped my hands around the shiv and buried it in my socket. I keeled over, twitching as I bowed before the candle, grasping at the base of its metal throne. A smile graced me, anticipating my paradise. But I was granted no salvation—only a darkness that slumped over me.