Blood of the Lamb
There’s something going on in the woods behind Two Resolutions Baptist. Every Friday night on my walk home from work, I’ve seen light flickering between the trees. Casting long shadows down the dirt road that no one travels, except for early services on Sunday, and Wednesday evening bible studies.
I stopped going a few months ago when my dad died. My only family left in the world. Leaving me alone with our church as my isolated community. Our town was tiny, secluded, which could be translated to bigoted, and borderline incestuous. I’m exaggerating of course, but closed communities are cults of their own. Cycling through repetitive sermons, schedules, and secrets.
Regardless, the doctrine never made much sense to me anyway, so it wasn’t much of a loss in the end. If anything, I felt free. Alive. Resurrected, if I’m not being too pointed. The church stopped serving me when I realized they sucked the life out of me. Constantly hassling my own father until he was 6ft deep. Drained by days spent decorating after services, deep cleaning, endless petty gossip, yard-work, and holier-than-thou holistic meals.
I couldn’t stand another potluck with questionable puritanical ingredients. Ironically, none of which were seasoning. Bland plates with beige food. Always contrasted with cups of crimson red. Maybe the wine was what made the food bearable. I wouldn’t know. I only just turned 21 and was never allowed to partake in the sacrament. Some churches provided juice, but not ours. They were so traditional that alcohol should have been shunned, but the sacrifice was special. Spiritual. Whenever they gathered together, they never missed the opportunity to drink their elixir of life. Only older members permitted to participate in their respective ritual. Although, was there truly anything respectful about cheap boozy beverages from bottom shelves shared between Baptists. At least I’m assuming that’s what they drank. But whenever I walked the aisles of the liquor store, none of the wine was as vibrant oras thick as the liquid I saw swish from cups to lips at every gathering.
My father never drank it. He said he would wait for me to join him when I was old enough. It was the only thing we had to look forward to in such a small town. So small that every family attended services. And every child grew up searching the cupboards of the church kitchen when parents weren’t looking. Hoping to find that special drink. Just so we could commit the sin of sipping it before we were legally allowed. Small, pathetic prizes when we had nothing else to keep us entertained.
Actually, when I really thought about it, a lot of my childhood memories were unclear. As if I was looking into flickering flames attempting to burn an image into my mind. I remembered sermons clearly enough, but barely anything else. That was a sad way to sum up my life so far. Falling asleep during speeches on Sundays followed by the hunt for forbidden fruit.
Maybe that’s why those were crisp snapshots. It was the only subject even remotely interesting about our town. That was, until a few weeks ago. A coworker a little younger than me mentioned there had always been some kind of bonfire on Friday behind the church. Her parents went every week. I was embarrassed that I missed this information for the majority of my life—probably because my father didn’t attend. But this was the first time I worked night shifts.
My family’s house was one of the few that sat along the same side road. I had walked past it my whole life, but never so late at night. The trees so dense that the moonlight couldn’t even reach me through the canopy. The structure hidden amongst the clawing branches. Illuminated by the fire that burned behind it. Shadowy appendages that reached for me. Every night on my return home, my shoes seemed to carry me closer to the festivities hidden in the forest. I’m not sure if it’s curiosity, or something calling me.
It’s a place I’m familiar with, so maybe it’s a habit. More than half my life spent between the pews and the pulpit. So, I’ve made up my mind to investigate their mysterious gathering. It seems so silly to have second thoughts. I’m sure they would be happy to see me return to a place and a practice I abandoned. It’s hard to avoid anyone around town anyway. But after my dad died, something changed. The congregation stares becoming colder. Their shadows following closer. People who saw me take my first steps as a child, suddenly felt sinister. As if my dad were the missing puzzle piece to my place amongst their flock. I was still a lamb…but they were suddenly something else.
I refused to live the rest of my days with a twisting feeling inside of my gut. Their light, like a lantern, felt like a sign. I decided before I left work to visit them and say something. Satiating my suspicions at the same time. I could see the glow growing brighter, and the closer I got, the more panic I felt. Unexplainable but relentless. My breath catching in my throat. My chest tight. I was acting ridiculous.
I had to pause for a second to steady myself. Sweat dripping down the sides of my face. It was the middle of summer, but I was suffering like a pig without mud.
Since a direct approach was too confrontational for my nervous system, I shifted gears to spy on them, saving conversation for another day.
Diverting into the thick of it, I quickened my pace but remained quiet. The grass a cushion to my sound. My clothes sticky and clinging uncomfortably to my skin as I pushed past low limbs that pulled at me. The fire flooded my vision as it came into sight. Rising to the treetops. Kissing leaves with forked fiery tongues. I crouched down and found a spot somewhat hidden in the shrubs to observe the spectacle.
It was just like I had assumed. As casual as any bonfire I had ever envisioned. The older generation of church folks sipping their drinks and shooting the shit. I felt ridiculous and began to stand when I saw her. A 10-year-old that I tutored in youth study not long ago. Slumped over a chair.
Her body was like a limp puppet even though her eyes were wide and wild. Her back arched unnaturally as her head hovered over a rusty metal bucket. A stream of crimson drizzling out of the back of her neck. Staining her blonde ponytail as it trickled into the container.
I was mortified. It was murder. Attempted murder? Active murder? I wasn’t sure. But it was wrong. I reached into my pocket to call…call who? I looked around at everyone in attendance. The sheriff was a willing participant at the party. His deputies and wives all walked around the little girl’s paralysis like a haunted house prop. Her parents a few feet away. Chatting casually.
In disbelief, I watched as the pastor approached her. Kneeling down and petting her head. Dangling a golden watch in front of her face as he swayed it back and forth. Whispering something I couldn’t hear. Placing his tranquilizing token into his pocket before dipping his cup into the pool of pubescent fluid.
I stumbled over a log and fell backwards. Hitting the ground with a thud that should have hurt, but I was too transfixed. Watching him lift the goblet to his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp of blood. And when he was finished, he turned his head in my direction. Followed by the sudden eerie gaze of the entire flock. Their eyes bright, glowing, red. Their sharp teeth glinting off the fire.
And that’s when I reached around to the back of my neck to feel a scar I had never noticed before.
Miranda Park
Miranda is an indie author and hairstylist living in the Kentucky triangle between Louisville, Elizabethtown, and Fort Knox. Her first book, CONSUMED, is available on Amazon, and her second book, FEASTED, will be released on New Years Eve.
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