I’m honored to have been selected as a short-list winner of Kandisha Press, a women’s horror writing publication. Check out my interview here
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Mother James clamped her hand around her only child’s shoulder before heading into the cellar for jarred vegetables. “Sarah, this is the last time I’m asking you to change the light bulb on the landing.”
Sarah knew better than to take Mother’s pleasant request as anything less than formidable.
“And make sure you scrub in the crevices.”
The sixteen-year-old turned on the water and ran it until she felt the warmth on her skin. She cleansed her hands with Fels-Naptha, falling short of the entirety of the prayer. Mother wasn’t smothering her this morning, making sure her hands were near bleeding. Near bleeding meant the Lord was pleased, at least according to Mother.
The whole tribe preached that cleanliness and Godliness went hand in hand. This was why the James’ family scoured their hands before breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
As Mother pounded up the last six wooden steps from the landing, Sarah pictured the broken light bulb swinging in the tailwinds of Mother’s pace. A devious crooked smile crossed Sarah’s lips. An unexplained defiance swelled from within. Four years. She was forced to move from Chicago’s suburbs to this repurposed land in the middle of nowhere waiting for the apocalypse. Four long and miserable years since Sarah had spoken to her old friends. Only pen pals were allowed on the homestead. And in the digital age, Sarah left behind her old friends who didn’t have time to write a letter using a pen and some paper, let alone adding a stamp and mailing it through the postal service.
The cellar door closed behind Mother. Sarah stood poised next to the metal sink and determined, right then, that their archaic way of life needed revisiting. “Mother, please, why must I be confined to this prison? Look at the beauty of the day.” She waved her hand toward the blue sky from the kitchen window. “I should be going to the movies with friends, not…”
Mother cut off her daughter’s candidness, “Sarah, we will not have this conversation again.” She turned from her daughter and towel dried a frying pan. “Do you know why this pan goes in this drawer?” Mother asked Sarah in an even tone, not allowing her to respond. “Because everything has its place and everything has a purpose.” Mother placed the pan in the bottom drawer. “The End of Days is closing in on us. We must survive its wrath in order to construct the new world. God has told Pastor Paul. We must follow The Way.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Mother, don’t you find this sudden change of our lifestyle slightly daunting?”
“You are crossing a fine line here, dear.” A malevolent darkness clouded over Mother’s normally blue irises.
Sarah didn’t back down, yet didn’t allow the rage she felt to take control—the same rage that she kept dormant for most her young life. Now wasn’t the time to release it.
“Mother, we follow the Lord.” She tugged on the dress Mother sewed last year. It was getting snug around the waist and didn’t lay on her calves as it once used to, but around her knees. “We pronounce our faith every day, before and after every meal. We sacrifice luxuries like television and music…”
“Stop! Just stop!” Her voice sounded flustered; a trait not normally expectant of Mother. “You will do as you are told. I will hear nothing more of it. This is God’s plan.”
“God’s plan?” Sarah let out a guttural laugh with no humor attached. “How is it God’s plan to wait for the end of the world? How the hell does Pastor Paul…”
Smack
Sarah held her burning cheek in her hand. Eyes watering. Mouth agape.
“Kneel at the hearth and beg for forgiveness!” Mother yelled. She pointed her long, skinny finger at the burning logs before tucking her hands inside her apron pouch.
Sarah did no such thing. Instead, she ran outside, letting the screen door slam back into the jam behind her. She barreled through the pasture of tall grass, keeping her hands near her face to block any stray blades from poking her eyes. Her lungs seared with pain on every inhalation and her thighs burned with fatigue.
***
Sarah didn’t intend on running to the encampment. It must had been out of habit. The camp was at least the size of a football field; though the flattened area was only a small portion of the tribe’s land. Hundreds of acres of prairie grass were purchased by an anonymous buyer. The isolated land was normally crammed with the rest of the tribe on the weekends. According to Mother, The End of Days approached and the tribe would soon occupy the land on a daily basis.
The deserted range was littered with canvas tents, firepits with cauldrons hanging from chains, rain barrels, and unseen underground bunkers filled with automatic weapons and survival gear. She looked around her antiquated surroundings, disgusted by the vision and spotted Pastor Paul standing by the unlit community stone fire pit with his arms raised to the heavens.
Pastor Paul was voted as tribe leader when the James’ family first arrived at the encampment. During the campaign period, Sarah saw Mother transform. She became a slithering snake as a political lobbyist; pushing weapons and survival agendas here, and throwing out progressive equality thoughts there. Shortly after Pastor Paul’s induction, the tribe determined—it was Mother’s suggestion—that all children under adulthood must live together and learn from the mentors in the privacy of the camp.
“Pastor Paul?” Sarah spoke nearly under her breath, wondering whether she should interrupt the handsome young pastor.
He stood with his back to her for an awkward second too long, as if he heard her but scrutinized how he would address the intruder. As Pastor Paul spun around to acknowledge Sarah, she nearly stumbled backward. His eyes flashed the color of organic egg yolks with vertical black slits as pupils. She blinked, hoping the quick darkness behind her own eyes would recalibrate her crazy vision. Maybe the illusion was a result of the near mile run to camp after the argument with Mother. After all, her mind was still slightly foggy.
“Aw, Sarah. How are you this beautiful afternoon the Lord has provided?”
She crossed her arms over her belly and shyly responded, “Fine.”
“Fine, you say. Well, quite frankly I don’t believe you.” He stepped over unburnt logs. “There’s no reason to hide from me.” He inched closer, strolling around the firepit’s stone perimeter as he spoke. His hands tucked in his front pants pockets. “In fact, based on the light perspiration on your brow and your breath still trying to regulate, I’d say you were running.” He gave a quick wink. “And knowing you for the past four years I’ve herded this community, I know you don’t train for marathons.” His lips curled into an arrogant twist and Sarah’s stomach churned.
“I just had a slight miscommunication with Mother and needed to blow off some steam.” Sarah tugged on the waistline of her dress that always inched up. “I’m sorry for interrupting you.” She turned to walk back to the house.
“Don’t be silly. Would you like to join me for a moment of prayer?”
Sarah was torn. If Mother were here, she would tell her it was rude to not pray with the flock’s leader; but still, she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling she had being alone with him. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to head home and apologize to Mother for my poor behavior.”
He squinted, as though evaluating her response. Finally, he said, “Godspeed, my child,” and turned his back to her.
Something felt off, a feeling with no description. It was simplistic uneasiness, like knocking on an abandoned building’s door three times, and hearing three ghostly knocks in return. The perfect excuse to run away. And that was exactly what she did—ran home.
***
The sun had long reached its afternoon peek and started its slow waning descent into the evening’s horizon by the time she stepped onto the front porch. The screen door’s springs groaned as Sarah tried her best to keep quiet. She scanned the kitchen and tiptoed over the hardwood floor, avoiding the memorized creaking spots.
To her surprise, the kitchen was empty. Sarah was elated in not having to deal with Mother’s wrath after the morning’s encounter. She assumed Mother would have a pile of gravel in front of the hearth to kneel on as she recited the Lord’s prayer for her rebellious attitude. Instead, the impending quiet put her nerves on edge.
It wasn’t the emptiness that was peculiar, but the lack of food cooking. Mother always had something brewing on the stove, whether soup or socks. Perhaps there was community supper at one of the other tribesmen’s homes and the reason for the lack of seasoning wafting in the air.
She looked for a note or some indication of where to meet her family. There was none. Dusk was vast approaching and she worried that her latest antics may have caused more harm than good. A heat flared from deep within and she once again cursed Mother for their new lifestyle. In this primitive community, there were no quick microwavable meals.
Sarah headed to the pantry to satisfy her hunger pains. Just as she reached for the cabinet’s knob, sounds of crashing glass came from just behind the cellar door. In an instant, that same apprehension she felt with Pastor Paul returned.
Fifty thousand thoughts raced through her mind as to what the crash could have been. Mason Jars. It had to have been the Mason jars. Mother kept the summer’s garden in jars on the shelves that seemed to collect too many spider webs in too short of time. She stood like stone, convincing herself the sound was merely a mouse tirade. If it was just crashing glass, Sarah could pretend she was still out when the accident occurred—of course, Mother would see right through her lie. Mother could spot a lie faster than a cheetah chasing an antelope.
Sarah decided to check out the commotion, even though the basement was more uncomfortable than praying in the community center. Her breath hitched as she opened the solid wooden door to the basement.
The dark, musty cellar reeked of mold, giving her an instant eyeball headache. She squeezed her thumb and index finger into the tiny crevices just below her eyebrows, desperately trying to ease the instant tight ache. When she pulled her hand from her face, the basement seemed darker somehow.
The only light shining into the basement was from the exits. One, a discolored glass window above the ninety-degree turn of the small landing’s bend and the second, from the slight reveal between two, almost horizontal, bilco doors on the opposite end of the cellar. Sarah reached around in the shadows for the string of the overhead light. She pulled the cord of the broken light bulb that she was asked to change a week ago and cursed her own laziness. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, a quiet cry came from the other end of the basement.
At a hesitant pace, she descended quietly down the second set of wood slatted steps. Treading on tip-toes to avoid her whole heel touching the cold cement, she headed toward the inescapable exit where the animal sound came from. Hopefully, the creeks of the scary basement weren’t playing tricks on her ears, or worse, this wasn’t a trick. Dead or dying disgusting creatures was not what she felt like dealing with. Mother would make her perform a ritual with the carcasses.
Sarah knew the two large bilco doors hadn’t been opened since they moved into the house four years ago. A rusted padlock kept the doors shut from the outside making the whole point of the escape doors irrelevant and useless. As she approached the secured doors, a scratch of nails on cement sounded back toward the landing. She spun around in hopes to see what made the sound.
A cry of a wounded wild animal entangled in a trap whimpered from under the landing’s steps. A winter morning’s frost covered her skin from head to toe. She took short, steady steps, so as not to trip on something unseen, and inched closer, trying to catch a slight glimpse of the creature. She peered between the steps, making sure to stay well beyond an arm’s length away.
The hiding creature had no definite form, but appeared as an illusion of slithering shadows creeping behind clouds. Another short step. Finally, the tiny ray of light shining in from the glass window allowed just enough illumination to make out its only distinct feature.
Black marble eyes reflected such a gruesome darkness that she felt bile rise from the pit of her stomach and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Her feet froze so no matter how much she wanted to leave, she remained glued to the cold cement floor.
The creature growled, making Sarah jerk back. It banged or punched or kicked the ell of the landing’s belly. She had to leave. She had to get out of there. A black haze enveloped the air around her. Her only escape route from the balmy cinderblock prison was over the creature’s lair, by way of the wood slatted steps leading upstairs. There was no other option. The bilco doors had been sealed for an eternity.
Sarah sprinted for the exit. Its black claws sprang through the gap between steps and grasped for her legs. It missed. Her heart pounded with nothing but fear. She made another attempt to escape and tried leaping up the stairs—two at a time. Furry grey knuckles reached between the gaps of the wood once again, revealing razor sharp nails. It seized her ankle and pulled her to the ground. She tried to move, but its grip was as rigid as a chained shackle. Trying to pull out of the hold was useless. Sarah refused to die this way. With every ounce of energy, she used her free leg and smashed her heal as hard as she could on its hand. Its tight hold loosened enough for Sarah to escape into the main house.
But the creature followed. Every stair bending under its weight. Its high-pitched hyena laugh echoed unearthly screeches off the living room walls while Sarah raced down the unlit hallway.
Sarah slithered sideways through the gap between the door frame and the sliding closet door. With her back pinned against the far wall hidden by shadows, she held her breath. As the dark mass drew closer, the stench of rotting fish spoiling in the hot summer sun penetrated her nostrils.
Heavy breath heaved in and out in repetitive patterns from the other side of the closet door. Sarah crouched in the corner under dress hems and coattails. Her heart pounded inside her chest—the beating blood vibrating her eardrums. The creature cackled. Sarah froze as a connection between her and the creature tightened around her body. She knew without thinking, that the creature could smell her fear. It laughed at her crumbling self-confidence.
The black plume drifted out of view allowing the last of the sun’s ambient light to pour into the dark closet, unveiling her once invisible cloak. With her knees pulled up to her chin, she rocked back and forth, wishing the thing to leave. But it wouldn’t. It would never leave. Somewhere deep down, she knew they were entwined, maybe even entangled together from some unfortunate ordeal she couldn’t fathom.
Sarah’s mind raced through her short life. There wasn’t anything special about living near the big city. People were rude and the traffic was chaotic. This community was comforting and the tribe members respected each other. They reminded Sarah of an ant colony; each member having its specialized mission. And if this thing, this creature, was the beginning of the end, then Mother was right.
The End of Days was upon them and the commune must stick together and follow The Way.
Still crouched in the corner, Sarah honed in on her intuition. She slowed her consciousness and began taking long, deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Just as a peaceful understanding spread throughout her body, the closet door exploded off the rail track. Sarah didn’t have time to push herself deeper in the corner, to run, to do anything. It happened too fast.
The foul, mutated creature with gray skin and thin hair covering its entire body, towered over her with machete sized teeth. It lifted its chin and howled. The End was upon Sarah. As the creature’s yellow eyes with black slit pupils shot hate-arrows through her aura, her mind went blank, yet one question swirled from earlier in the day by the firepit.
“Pastor Paul?”
Before any response or movement occurred, a knock came from the screen door.
The beast huffed in annoyance.
Pastor Paul’s voice echoed through the house, “Hello? Is anyone home?”
The creature swiveled its head from the front of the house to Sarah, and back again. Suddenly, it shrank to a little over five feet tall. Its gray pigment transformed to a pale white with freckles. Its yellow eyes changed to bright blue. And in the sweetest voice, Mother called back, “Be right there.”
Mother yanked her only daughter from the closet floor. She gripped Sarah’s arm, impressing her longer than normal nails into the sensitive skin under her inner arm. Mother’s voice deepened to the irritated, angry voice she only used before their move to the camp. “Release your rage, or rethink your ungratefulness in death.” Her fingers dug deeper and tears leaked from Sarah’s eyes. “I bought this land decades ago and have waited. Waited for the perfect opportunity. Waited for the people of this beautifully corrupt land to turn on each other.”
Sarah questioned this new feeling; and it wasn’t the trickle of warm blood seeping from the holes Mother dug into her arm. No, this was a kind of sleeping rage she’d suppressed for most of her life. It finally felt like a blessing, as opposed to a curse. She felt enlightened.
Mother continued, “I will lead these ingrates to death or salvation, whichever they choose. You are the devil’s only child. Your destiny is to rule by my side. Choose now!” She squeezed tighter. “Choose wisely!”
Sarah ripped Mother’s hand from her bicep. Malediction rose from a place dark and deep. Power unleashed its grip and surged through Sarah’s veins. She straightened her dress at the waistline and strode toward the front door with a new sense of confidence, pausing in front of the full-length mirror on the way.
She stared at her reflection with a renewed reverence. Her eyes flicker a golden hue with black slits for pupils. Just as she turned to answer the pastor’s call, a devious smile curled over her chin, revealing the slightest hint of teeth. She would no longer play in the game; she was determined to rule it.
“Pastor Paul, how will you be serving us today?”